Recipe for Disaster
by i-must-go-first
Summary: The problem is that she wrote the rule book, and Gerry has never been very fond of rules. He knows that with Sandra, though, the trick will be to bend, not to break. The not-so-long-awaited sequel to Same Time, Next Week.
1. Feast or Famine

_Really Long Author's Note: I really do have a life, sort of. In fact, I'm insanely busy, but I'm also going travelling for a few months starting in May, and you were all so kind and warm and lovely in your responses to _Same Time, Next Week_ that I want to get this posted before I meander off into the sunset. I originally intended this as the mid-point of the story, because I'm much more interested in what might happen after Sandra and Gerry come to their "agreement." I've tried to keep them in character, but this is uncharted territory. I hope you enjoy the ride._

**Recipe for Disaster**

**Chapter One: Feast or Famine**

The trick is simplicity: few ingredients, very fresh, not over-seasoned or drowned in sauces or spices. Flavours so full that they make you see the sun-warmed Tuscan hills, the teeming streets of Naples, the haunting beauty of Venice, La Serenissima. Not elaboration, but simplicity.

Maybe that's why he chose this particular restaurant, his favourite Italian. He can ply her with wine and regional delicacies and, if he's lucky, reduce this situation to something less difficult to sort out than a plate of spaghetti.

If she turns up at all. She's twenty minutes late, which would be in good time if it were him, but she's punctual. If Gerry Standing were the type to get nervous about a bird, he'd be getting nervous by now. He isn't, obviously, so he orders a second glass of primitivo. Cool as a cucumber.

_Right, Standing_, he thinks as he takes a sip and refuses to look toward the door. _Keep telling yourself that._

Sandra has behaved so normally for the last seven days that Gerry has almost convinced himself he imagined everything that took place one week ago tonight.

Almost.

He's fairly creative and has a decent imagination, but hallucinations this vivid would require psychotropic drugs – or a brain tumour. That would explain a lot, not least the sense he has of having fallen through a black hole into some alternate reality where his governor takes him up on the implied offer he's been making for eight years, where she makes appointments with him, of all people, to share good food and better sex; where he has visceral sense memories of sweaty skin and rumpled sheets and a low, clear voice murmuring in his ear.

Yeah, brain tumour. Gotta be. He's probably not even here, standing at the blond wood bar, feeling the bite of the red wine on his tongue. He's probably in hospital, hooked up to loads of horrible machines, vegetative. Carole and Alison are somewhere nearby, weeping at the prospect of lost alimony, and if he's lucky Sandra will pop in to mutter "Poor old tosser" and hoover up the inevitable green grapes left by unsuspecting well-wishers.

That must be reality, not this illusion that a gorgeous blonde is threading her way as quickly as she can through the prime dinner-hour crowd, catching Gerry's eye and smiling. She's not stopping well within conversational distance, grousing about the traffic, ordering her own glass of wine. She's not wiggling out of her coat and scarf to reveal a snug sweater the same colour as the wine and raising her eyebrows as she asks, "Earth to Gerry – Are you in there?" But sod it, he prefers the illusion and doesn't want to know. Besides, hospital food is terrible.

"Cheers," he says, tapping his wine glass against hers. "Drink up, then."

"Why, you trying to get me drunk?" she retorts sharply, and he hears himself lob back, "Do I need to?"

Sandra regards him expressionlessly for a few seconds before she smirks. "No," she says frankly.

This can't be the same woman who has done nothing slightly out of the ordinary in over six days; who has just hours ago made a very large, very angry man weep; who yesterday specifically assigned Gerry the task of "attempting to be less useless." If he doesn't have a brain tumour, she has developed multiple personalities. Better her than him, but one of them is screwed.

As they're led through the restaurant with its rosy brick walls and copper accents to a table tucked into a corner, he thinks, _Please don't let me wake up right now_.

When she suggests they order the bisteca alla fiorentina and wild mushroom risotto for two, looking as pleased at the prospect as if all is right with the world and God in his heaven, he contemplates the possibility that this is what Brian would call a coping mechanism for dealing with her mother's death. But Sandra seems calm and rational, even cheerful, enough.

Sandra picks one of the thin grissini from the bread basket, snaps it in two, and as she pops a piece into her mouth, asks, "Why the hell do you keep staring at me like that? Have I still got ink on my face?"

Gerry mentally shakes himself and physically shakes his head. "Still?"

She shrugs. "I had a small disagreement with the office printer earlier this evening." She pauses to sip her wine. "Ruined my other jumper."

"Who won?"

Sandra frowns slightly. "It's a war of attrition at this point," she says darkly, "but I'll win eventually, of course."

"Of course."

She flashes that brilliant smile in his direction, and he thinks, _Nah, this isn't happening. No bleedin' way at all._

They share a delicious meal and a gloat over the very reasonable price of the wine, which isn't quite a fashionable vintage yet, all the while engaging in desultory conversation. It's all so very strange in its normality that Gerry expects his dinner companion either to disappear into thin air or to tell him that this has all been some sort of elaborate joke or sociology experiment. Maybe Jack and Brian are out front with a surveillance team. Maybe Sandra's wearing a wire – although, quite frankly, he can't imagine where she could be hiding it, and he prides himself on being something of an expert on women's undergarments.

After he has paid the bill, shrugged into his overcoat and helped her into hers, a gesture she tolerates, they stand outside in the wintry darkness, their breath making little puffs of steam in the frigid air. He lights a cigarette.

"Christ, Gerry, it's bloody freezing. Do you really want to smoke that badly?" Her eyes narrow. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, fine."

He must not sound convincing. She shifts her bag from one shoulder to the other, fishes out her car keys, and stands studying Gerry intently. "Do you want me to go home?" she bursts out, an edge to her voice.

He straightens, drops the cigarette, and grabs her wool-covered elbow, as if she's skittish and might bolt. "No," he says forcefully. That's the last thing he wants. "Sandra –"

As he says her name he releases her elbow and finds her hand, the nearest exposed part of her that he can reach. They haven't put their gloves on yet, and as he curls her frigid fingers into his, he realises he could've saved himself over an hour of extreme confusion if he'd simply touched her when she arrived. A tingle of electricity sweeps up his arm at the casual contact, and when her eyes widen fractionally, he knows she feels it too.

"I may not be very good at this whole thing at first," he admits. "The learning curve may be a bit steep."

She knows exactly what he means, but chooses to misinterpret his words. "I don't know," she says lightly. "You did well enough for a beginner last time."

"Oi, I'm no beginner."

"You are with me," she retorts. "But don't worry, I'm an excellent teacher."

"Oh, well, in that case I'll be your star pupil." He steps into her and they kiss, and despite the freezing air temperature Gerry feels a flare of heat.

Lack of oxygen and the knowledge that this is Sandra he's kissing have begun to make Gerry a little light-headed when she pulls away. "Lesson one," she says. "This is better done, if possible, where there's no imminent risk of frostbite."

She follows him back to his flat. He's had just enough time to get in the door when she arrives, and he tugs her inside and kisses her again, better this time. When they break apart her coat is on the floor and his hands, still cold, are inside her sweater, splayed across her spine. Her nose is still cold and her eyes are the colour of a frozen ocean, but everything else about her is gloriously warm.

"Lesson two," she murmurs. "Skin to skin contact is good for generating body heat."

He grins. "I wouldn't want you suffering from the cold." Their fingers link together as he draws her toward the stairs.

"I'm more concerned about you. The elderly don't tolerate extreme temperatures well at all."

"Then we'd better get you out of those clothes right away," he suggests helpfully, "so you can warm me up," and she laughs as she steps out of her shoes just inside his bedroom door.

"There's the Gerry I know and tolerate," she says, but pulls the sweater over her head and drops it to the carpet in one fluid motion. "Wanna help?"

For once, the governor doesn't have to ask Gerry twice to do something.

He wakes up when she shifts and slides out of bed. In the dim glow cast by the street lamps he watches her efficiently gather her discarded clothes and put them on, and then turn back toward the bed. He waits, curious. Will this Sandra slip away under the cover of darkness, vanish and mysteriously rematerialize next week at whatever funky little ethnic joint she chooses? He knows now that he will walk into the office and find the other Sandra, the one he's known for eight years. The gov.

But no. She leans into the bed and lightly touches his shoulder through the duvet. "Gerry? I'm going." Her eyes find his in the low light.

"All right." He won't push, but – "My repertoire isn't exclusive to dinners, y'know. I can also cook breakfast."

She grins at him. "I'm sure you can."

"Bad idea?" he surmises.

"Bad idea." She straightens and smoothes her hair. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He listens to her pad downstairs in her bare feet, and knows that she is slipping her shoes on, then her scarf and coat. The frozen door hinges whine in protest when she lets herself out.

Simplicity, not elaboration.

_Right_, he thinks. This is very simple, as long as they both play by the rules. Gerry has never exactly excelled at rule-following, but he has also never tried very hard.

This seems worth trying very hard indeed.

Sandra has drawn clear lines to protect herself and him. Black and white, work and play, the other mundane six days in the week and Thursday evenings.

Famine and feast.

He smirks into the semi-darkness. That seems the most fitting way to express it. Feast or famine. After all, they'd never be, er, feasting at all if not for their shared love of food and ability to appreciate it as an art form, something to be consumed slowly and savoured.

Gerry plans to savour this for a long time, much longer than a week.

_Yeah, so… Let me know if this doesn't suck_.


	2. Food for Thought

**Chapter Two: Food for Thought**

Sandra is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Not literally, because she isn't wearing shoes. Her slouchy black suede boots are paired neatly a few feet from the slightly faded, intricately woven Turkish carpet where she sits, richly coloured pillows piled between her back and the diamond-patterned wooden screen separating her eating area from the next. She leans backward comfortably as a waiter pours pungent golden Turkish wine into a clay wine vessel, and smiles. "Cheers," she offers.

Nope, the shoe she's concerned about is of the figurative variety.

Work hasn't been thrilling lately, but things are ticking over smoothly enough. Brian is on his medication; Jack seems content; and Strickland is keeping his distance, which is exactly how Detective Superintendent Pullman prefers him. As for Gerry, the only thing he's been guilty of all week is behaving suspiciously well. Sandra herself is feeling exceptionally – well, happy.

Paradoxically, her happiness is the fly in her ointment. It feels like both a betrayal of Grace and a validation of her pronouncement about Sandra's coldness. Thinking of the empty space where her mother should be pains Sandra, but doesn't prevent her from feeling more content with her life than she has in a long while – and yet that disturbs her. She suspects that it must mean she truly doesn't feel things deeply. Is the reality that she is so colossally self-involved that she isn't measurably affected by the death of her own mother? Christ, it makes her sound like a sociopath. "Cold" is a compliment in comparison.

Despite the bleak midwinter weather outside, she doesn't feel cold. She feels warm, cozily ensconced amongst the pillows. It would be perfect if only Gerry would get the bloody lead out so they could eat. She's starving.

Good Lord, _Gerry_. She laughs at herself as she rolls the wine over her tongue. It's so ludicrous that she has to. She is sitting in her favourite Turkish restaurant on an ordinary Thursday evening, anticipating the moment when she'll be presented with one of her favourite dishes – an event contingent upon the arrival of Gerry Standing. Then, if all goes according to plan (and Sandra is fairly confident) she'll go back to his flat and give him something to spend the next week trying to forget. It's incredible, according to the true Oxford English definition of the term. She would never have believed it of herself. She's still not quite sure she does, really.

And yet, it's undeniable that there is a smile breaking across her face as she watches him duck awkwardly through the doorway, briefly doing battle with the beaded curtain, and that when their eyes meet and he grins back, slightly boyish, she feels a pleasant warmth creep through her limbs.

"If you get down here, are you going to be able to get back up?" she taunts as he slips his shoes off. "Or will you need a crane?"

"If you can manage it, I reckon I can too," he retorts, none too gracefully clambering over the cushions and flopping down beside her. He emits a small sound, something like an "oof."

"Ooh, ouch." That wicked smile remains in place as she pours wine into the second clay cup. "Too mature for you, am I? So is any woman with a mental age above twelve."

He accepts the drink but his smile drops away. "Not funny." He takes a quick sip. "Paedophile unit, remember?"

"Sorry." She braces one hand on the rug and angles her body slightly toward him.

"I'll just point out that neither of us is eligible for a bus pass."

Sandra chuckles. "Right, you're in your prime."

It may be ridiculous, but at the moment Gerry feels like he is; and if he's not, he doesn't care. He closes the distance between them, not sure whether or not he's violating the rules of play by doing this in public – well, semi-public – but she leans in to meet him halfway.

_Oh, hello_, Sandra thinks as their lips meet. _It's_ _you again, is it? I know you. _She feels herself shiver slightly and Gerry's mouth curves into a smile even as his fingers trail up her arm to her back and press her closer. He's pleased with himself. Well, let him have his moment. This is the least logical, most inexplicable aspect of the entire situation.

Physical attraction. She doesn't know how it happened, or when, or why; but there it is. Gerry Standing is not her type, in any sense of the term. Frequently she wants to punch him – a mean left hook, nothing so girly as a slap from Sandra Pullman. But she has other, less violent urges where he's concerned too.

She draws back and casually sips the wine. After only a short time, the taste of him is growing familiar – in a nice, comforting way. Cigarettes and peppermint and a slight saltiness.

He brushes her hair away from her jaw (she knows he likes to do that) and reaches for the menu. "This is one of your places," he says, "so what's good?"

Sandra deftly lifts the menu from his hands and snaps it shut. "I've already ordered," she informs him. "You have to in advance for the house speciality, which is the reason to come here."

Gerry looks slightly skeptical. "And that is?"

"Clay pot kebap." She glances down at the table as their waiter reappears with bread and oil. "You'll see," she promises.

She's not exactly shocked that Gerry wants her. Sandra isn't being arrogant: she's female and reasonably intelligent. More specifically, judging from his exes, she's not far off his type physically. He likes blondes. Granted, petite, slender blondes – Sandra could take either of them with one hand tied behind her back. But she is shocked that he actually followed through on nearly eight years of mild flirting and innuendos.

"Oh, lovely, here we go," she says brightly as the busy waiter returns, now bearing two clay pots on a tray. "The meat is seasoned and prepared with tomatoes and onions," Sandra explains in a lower voice to Gerry, "and cooked very slowly in a clay pot – underground traditionally, but here in an oven, alas."

"Better than a tandoor?" he asks, and she grins and nods. In answer Gerry lightly kisses her cheek, and she thinks, _There, Mum_.

She cares about Gerry, genuinely cares. She doesn't want anyone else to touch one of the few remaining hairs on his head, even if she reserves the right to kill him. She trusts him. Sandra doesn't trust many people, but Gerry has proven himself.

And he's safe.

Yes, her relationship with him could potentially screw up the balance of things at UCOS. But Gerry will stay on his best behavior, because he needs UCOS too. Even more importantly, they've reached a mutual agreement. They enjoy being together but won't let it ruin anything else.

Safe as houses.

They scoop rice and pickled red cabbage from the serving vessels, and Sandra waits and watches as he takes a bite and then another.

"Ah, yeah," he comments appreciatively, his mouth full, and she grins.

"I do know a thing or two about food."

"You know a thing or two about quite a lot, Sandra."

Her clear gaze zeroes in on him. "You include yourself in that category, I assume."

She knows much more than a thing or two about Gerry Standing. She knows about every bad habit, every vice. She knows details of gambling and adultery and plain dodgy decision-making. She feels as if virtually nothing he could do at this point would surprise her. Sandra expects the odd outrageously archaic comment or stupid stunt. She expects him to have a roving eye. They're not married; they're not even dating. They're just… whatever they are.

Sandra sees Gerry's flaws very clearly.

As if reading her mind, he looks mildly embarrassed. "Obviously," he says.

She's by nature and position less forthcoming than he is, but she has no doubt that Gerry sees her flaws quite clearly as well. She's quick-tempered, impatient, prone to shouting first and thinking later. Some of the qualities that make her a good police officer are the same ones that made her the school bitch, just re-channeled. She can be a bully. And she's not good with relationships. She has spent a lifetime building a wall around herself, and has done such a good job of fortifying it that now, at fifty, she doesn't know how to get out, much less let anyone else in.

Working relationships are different. Her life centres on her work, so the people who understand that work are the ones who understand her. The list is a very short one.

Sandra reaches out suddenly and touches Gerry's arm, just because he's there and she can. He smiles, pleased, and she smiles back, squeezing lightly before returning to her meal. It's nice to have someone to touch; she has missed this.

She thinks it should feel strange, surreal, that the person she's touching is Gerry – and yet it doesn't. It's surprisingly easy.

"What's that look?" he asks.

"What do you think it is?" she volleys, unwilling to commit herself.

"Hmm – You look chuffed with yourself."

"And why shouldn't I be? I'm introducing you to the delights of the clay pot kebap," she replies lightly.

"You can take credit for introducing me to several delights recently." He shoots her a rakish grin that has her rolling her eyes.

"Oh, please, Gerry," she retorts. "I think it's a bit late in the day for you to be introduced to anything of that nature."

"I was talking about food," he returns, ostentatiously wounded, and she snorts.

"You were not." Businesslike, she splits the remainder of the wine between their glasses and does likewise with the last of the main dishes. He catches her hand and twines their fingers together. Being able to touch her like this gives him a thrill; even the most casual contact seems secret, clandestine. The possibility that she's going to slap him away this time is ever-present, but she doesn't, not yet. His thumb rubs over her knuckles. Her skin is surprisingly soft.

"Yeah, okay, I wasn't." She lets him draw her hand to his lips and kiss the delicate veins on the sensitive inside of her wrist before straightening her fingers and kissing her palm. "You can't change a leopard's spots, and all that."

"I have no intention of trying," she replies with the same sort of reluctant amusement that he's seen countless times on the job twitching at the corners of her lips. "I'm used to old dogs by now."

"You and your honeyed words of flattery."

"I don't have to flatter you, Gerry." She disentangles her hand and braces her elbow on the tabletop. "You do it yourself." The bright smile she flashes at him is completely without malice.

"See what you've done to me, gov? I'd rather be insulted by you than flattered by any other woman."

She laughs as she chases the last morsel of chicken around her plate. "Oh, I'm sure. Now wax poetic on my classical beauty and related virtues."

His clear, light eyes narrow as he drains the dregs of his wine. "I don't know much about virtues," he retorts, "but you know you're beautiful."

"Cheers, Gerry," she murmurs dryly. "I live for your validation. They do fantastic baklava here. Want to share a piece?"

They drink very strong black tea from small glass cups and eat baklava that's golden and beautifully flaky and dripping with butter and honey. Sandra lounges back against the pile of cushions, as content and languid as a tabby cat, and gazes at Gerry through heavy-lidded eyes. He leans over and kisses her lightly, unable to resist. He is, she thinks, like a child with a new toy, and she chuckles.

"Does it live up to the fantasy, Gerry?" she teases. "Finally getting to shag the boss?"

"It's not that," he protests. She shoots him an extremely skeptical look, and he amends, "All right, not just that."

She laughs merrily and hoists herself to her feet. "Come on," she says, tossing the appropriate number of notes onto the table. "You can follow me back to your flat, if that piece of shit you drive will crank."

As her headlights cut through the darkness, Sandra contemplates Gerry Standing's philosophy of life and love as she has come to understand it over the years. He's an unrelenting optimist as far as women go. The serial philanderer is also a serial monogamist – For Christ's sake, the man has been married three times and engaged another – what was it he'd told her years ago? Three? She wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd left a few out. And who knows how many more times he's proposed and been rejected? She chuckles in the quiet interior of the convertible, but the sound is affectionate, not malicious. Gerry, however much they tease him, is an incurable, if failed, romantic. He obviously believes in teenage feelings and eternal devotion and capital-T, capital-L True Love; that he hasn't found it, and may not have the capacity to experience or reciprocate it, hasn't disillusioned him. At heart Gerry is looking for The One, not just a good time and a shag.

"The grass is always greener," Sandra muses loftily, as if he were sitting in the passenger seat. _Gerry, you tosser, you're searching for perfection, and the next woman coming down the pike is always going to be the right woman._

Sandra knows there's no such thing as perfection. Professionally, she strives to be the best she can be. That's not perfection, but it is, like Gerry's quest for a maiden fair, the knowledge that she can push herself further, get better.

Jack and Brian and Gerry have taught her that getting better is not the same as being endlessly promoted through the ranks, and for that she is grateful. Professionally Sandra is very content.

She finds a place to park reasonably near Gerry's flat and locks the car. He gets there first, unlocks the exterior door, and stands just beyond it, smiling as he waits for her. Sandra automatically smiles back. She's been doing a lot of that recently.

"In you go," he says.

As he takes her coat, she re-evaluates her earlier thought: she's not Gerry's type, actually, because she has no more likelihood of being his Ms. Right than he has of winning twenty thousand quid in the fifth at Walthamstow. They've known one another too well for too long. There's no way he's going to go all Andy Hardy on her and declare his undying love, thank God. She snickers at the thought, and he casts her an enquiring look which she ignores.

"Time's a-wastin', Granddad."

"Oi, ease up, would you?"

Sandra feels completely safe with Gerry. She's never had that assurance before, because never have the stakes been so low.

"Oh, hurt your feelings, have I?" Those blue eyes twinkle wickedly.

"You could make it up to me," he suggests, "if you try very hard."

She snickers again. "I won't have to try at all," she promises.

Later, when she sits up in his bed and swings her bare feet to the floor, preparatory to leaving, he grabs her upper arms, stopping her progress for a few seconds, and presses a kiss to her shoulder blade. "You _are_ different," he says against her skin. "From… the others."

She simply smiles that tiny, inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. "I know, Gerry," she says; "I know."

_Your reviews are super encouraging and make me type faster._


	3. Fortune Cookies I

_Disclaimer: I'm fully aware that the fortune cookie is basically an American phenomenon (probably of Japanese origin, so it's confused, much like Sandra and Gerry). Please humour me, gentle readers. _

**3. Fortune Cookies**

**Part One: Week One**

1.

Tonight he suggested Chinese and they're already seated in their usual restaurant when he realizes this may have been an error in judgment. They've ordered and Sandra is drinking hot tea as Gerry reaches to cover her hand with his, but draws back before making contact. They come in here frequently enough that the waitstaff knows them.

The look of consternation on his face is comical. It's Thursday; he's been waiting all week, a very well-behaved boy, to touch her again and now he's idiotically squandering at least an hour of their precious time. "You and your bloody stupid rules," he grouses.

"You know my rules are necessary, not stupid," she replies cheerfully. "Besides, I thought you picked this place on purpose."

"Exactly why in hell would I do that?" He's still disgruntled, and her smirk isn't helping. She doesn't seem bothered at all.

Her response is a single-shouldered shrug. "A game." That smile widens. "You like to play games, don't you, Gerry?"

"You're trying to kill me."

"Nah, I wouldn't want to have to conduct interviews to replace you – at UCOS," she adds for clarification. Under the table her fingernails tap his knee, as if she is testing his reflexes. "Give me your hand," she prompts.

So they hold hands under the table like a couple of school kids, eating one-handed, and he's placated by the innocent contact and the unexpectedly sweet smile she gives him over kung pao chicken. When they leave, he shoves his crumpled fortune into his pocket, barely glancing at it in his haste to get her alone. It's only the next morning that the irony strikes him, after his mobile goes at a quarter to six and a very familiar sleep-roughened voice says, "London Bridge tube station, as quickly as you can get here. Strickland's assigned us a new case."

The February morning is predictably sodden, with a blustery wind kicking up out of the east. It's even colder underground following Sandra and a transit policeman through the bowels of a decommissioned part of the station, now being cleared as part of the much-debated station renovation.

"Bloody shame," Gerry complains, his breath making little white puffs in the dimness. "Boris and his lot are completely ruinin' Borough Market. I've got great memories of the place."

"If they involve shagging behind a vegetable stand –" Jack begins grimly.

"No, nothing like that. I used to bring the girls here when they were little and get all the ingredients for a big family dinner every Saturday." He pauses. "Well, some Saturdays," he admits ruefully.

They tromp down a mild grade, and the darkness increases despite the lights that have been strung up around the construction zone. "Just here, ma'am," the transit copper says, gesturing with his torch. The beam bounces crazily, revealing no more than a flash of something that glimmers dully for a split second.

"Right." The beam from the gov's torch is much steadier, and clearly illuminates a partially unearthed human skeleton. "Boys, meet Eddie Bracknell."

"The Eddie Bracknell?" Brian asks, and follows up with a whistle.

"Bloody hell," Jack chimes in, astonished.

The fortune that had been stuck inside Gerry's stale cookie flashes incongruously through his thoughts: _An old acquaintance will reenter your life under mysterious circumstances._

Gerry folds his arms and scowls. "Long time, no see, you tosser," he mutters through gritted teeth. "You've looked better."

2.

"George Edward Bracknell," Sandra says, gesturing at the photograph on the marker board. It's a snapshot, not a mug shot, of a slender, bald man in a very expensive grey silk suit. Italian, Gerry assumes. Eddie favoured Italian fashion.

"Ready Eddie," he supplies, "because he was always ready with an ironclad alibi whenever we questioned him."

"You knew him?"

Gerry raises an eyebrow. "Half the Met knew him, and spent the late seventies tryin' to nick him."

"Unsuccessfully," Brian puts in.

"He was smart," Gerry continues. "He never pulled a job himself, and his lads would never give him up."

"They would've been as good as dead if they had." Jack looks steadily at the photograph.

"Obviously we're all familiar with him." Sandra slaps a second image up on the board. "The closest our lot ever came to catching him was in –"

"May 1979," Brian interrupts.

"Credex Bank job," Jack contributes.

Sandra grits her teeth. "Three men broke into the bank's vault around two a.m. on the second of May by using the security code. The code automatically changed every forty-eight hours, so the flight squad immediately suspected an inside man – or woman," she adds. "They made it out with over two million quid."

"Two million, three hundred seventy-three thousand, six hundred forty-two," Brian corrects absently.

"Right. Two of the men were identified as Bobby Mills and Clayton Powell – small-time villains and known associates of Eddie Bracknell." Next to the photograph of the bank building Sandra posts up Mills and Powell. "A third set of prints at the scene belonged to Bracknell, but when the flight squad attempted to bring him in—"

"Vanished," Gerry says. "Poof, gone, like magic. We never found him or the missing money, so we assumed he was sunning himself on the beach in Malaga while we were being made to look like a bunch of prize wallies."

Brian frowns. "You weren't on the flight squad in May of '79."

"I was seconded in for the investigation." Gerry shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and leans against the filing cabinet. "It was like a four-month-long continuous bollocking. At the time we thought Eddie had intentionally left his fingerprints at the bank."

"Thumbing his nose, like." Brian props his chin on his fist and frowns.

"Exit Ready Eddie stage left. He's neither seen nor heard from for over thirty years, until an unsuspecting removal crew working at London Bridge tube station stumbled upon his skeleton shortly after five this morning. It had been secreted in a layer of rubbish that was subsequently covered with concrete. And now we have a problem. Jack?" Sandra sits down next to Brian and crosses her legs.

"What's the problem?" Brian enquires. "Seems textbook enough. Bracknell pulls the job, everyone in the East End knows, and someone tops him and takes the cash."

"If you'll listen, you'll find out. _Jack_."

"According to very detailed records, the last major construction project carried out in this area of the London Bridge station –" Jack slaps up his own photo, which depicts the partially excavated skeleton – "was carried out in the spring of '79, when the Northern Line was rerouted in order to make way for the digging of a new gas main. To be more specific," he winds up grimly, "this layer of concrete was poured on the 25th of April."

"Shit," Gerry swears so violently that the others all turn to look at him.

"So our remit is obviously to re-examine all the evidence and try to figure out not only who killed Bracknell, but who the third man in the robbery was, and what happened to the missing money." Sandra rises and rocks on her boot heels. "Gerry, you and Brian round up anyone you can locate from the original investigating team and have a chat. Jack, Clayton Powell is dead, but Bobby Mills is banged up for GBH. So –"

"It's a lovely day for a prison visit," the older man agrees warily.

**Part Two: Week Two**

"Anyone fancy a Chinese?" Brian asks, removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. "Esther's got her book club tonight."

"Ah, you're a free man." Jack leans away from his computer screen. "I'm game."

"Count me out," says Gerry, reaching for his coat. Another week has rolled by, and it's Thursday.

"Count you in." Sandra emerges from her office stifling a yawn. "Working dinner. I've just been on with the Spanish authorities, and there is absolutely no indication that Claudia and Marissa Bracknell ever entered the country."

Gerry frowns. "Okay, so their passports were a couple of sexton blakes."

"Maybe." Sandra shrugs into her red wool. "What I want to know is whether anyone remembers having seen her between the twenty-fifth of April and the second of May, so first thing in the morning you and I will be doing a house-to-house in the Bracknells' old neighbourhood, on the off chance that anyone's still around who remembers anything. " She looks over at the former D.I. "Brian, go back to Claudia Bracknell's background and go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. When her charming husband was off planning robberies and committing fraud, where did she go, what did she do, who did she do? Does she have any relatives? Blah blah blah."

"And me?" Jack asks as they wait for the lift. "Shall I go and scout out Ronald Fletcher again?" The vice-president of the now-defunct Credex, son of the man who had been president in 1979, had been less than forthcoming during their first conversation.

"Took the words right out of my mouth." Sandra yawns. "Go and rattle his cage a bit."

A few minutes later they are settled around one of the large, round, black-lacquered tables, swilling ooh-long tea and eating egg rolls and spicy calamari. Sandra is next to Gerry, but there is definitely no hand-holding under the table.

"You think Claudia Bracknell topped her husband," Gerry surmises grimly.

"Why not?" Sandra replies around a bite of crispy squid. "You yourself said Bracknell was a pillock –"

"Mean bastard," Gerry corrects darkly.

"Mean wife-beating bastard?" she asks.

"No. I would've known about it. We would've known about it," Gerry clarifies. "But you have to remember that we had no reason to look closely at Claudia. The entire family disappeared simultaneously – we thought – so we assumed they'd all got new identities for themselves and pissed off to the Continent, didn't we?"

Gerry's volume rises steadily until the governor breaks in. "Okay, okay – Jesus, Gerry. No one's criticizing the handling of the case, and even if we were, it's not as if it'd all be down to you just because you worked on it."

They've been knocking at closed doors for a solid week, and tempers are beginning to flare. Strickland is constantly underfoot, pressuring Sandra to achieve some sort of result, just as he himself is being pressured by the higher-ups. The discovery of Eddie Bracknell's body has brought up thirty-year-old allegations of police corruption and incompetence, and has given the Met a black eye. Sandra and Strickland have both been plastered across the dailies.

"Let's just go over what we _do_ know," she says now, and pauses as a waitress delivers three huge main dishes and heaping bowls of rice, two white and one brown. "We know for a fact that Bracknell wasn't directly involved with the robbery, whether or not he was involved in the planning, because he was definitely dead when the robbery was committed."

"His fingerprints were planted at the scene, likely by the effective but inelegant technique of using Bracknell's severed hands – which we don't have, but we do have a handless corpse," Brian puts in helpfully.

"I'd lay money on Fletcher junior being the inside man at the bank," Jack says, "but as of now we have nothing to tie him to the robbery."

"We know Bracknell's wife and nine-year-old daughter disappeared before the robbery. We don't know whether that was before or after Ready Eddie's death, or where they are now, if they're even still alive." For once Sandra really isn't hungry; the stalemate makes her a little queasy. Also, the sainted _Daily Mirror_ has raked up the whole dog-shooting incident, and someone barked at her in the cafeteria yesterday. Life pretty much sucks this week.

"Yeah, well, we also know that Eddie was under investigation by the fraud squad for a pyramid scheme he was running," Gerry reminds, "and he could've been set up for the robbery and offed by someone who was afraid of going down with him."

"No Eddie, no more fraud case." Sandra stands up. "Try working on that angle and see if you get anywhere. I'll go on my own in the morning." She folds her coat over her arm. "Excuse me. I'm off home; I'm exhausted."

She pops into the ladies' on the way out, and when she emerges, Gerry is waiting for her. "You forgot your fortune cookie," he says, pressing it into her hand. "Did you also forget what day of the week it is?"

"No." There's no way the others can seem them where they're standing so she presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Maybe next week will be less hellish than this week."

It's only when she sits on the pocket of her coat and feels the cookie break into a thousand pieces that Sandra remembers her fortune. Idly, she extracts the slip of paper and reads in the dim glow provided by her car's interior light.

_You will meet a dark, mysterious stranger._

Sandra sighs heavily. _Bring it on_, she thinks. She hopes the dark, mysterious stranger will be the person who killed Eddie Bracknell, and that he or she will come bearing two million quid into the bargain.

**Part Three: Week Three**

"Lloyd Munson," Jack announces triumphantly, walking into the office on Monday afternoon.

Sandra, who has spent the morning with Ronald Fletcher, her new least favourite person, is working on getting a pounding, blinding headache. "Who?" she asks from her prone position on the loveseat.

"The third man," Jack returns, immensely pleased with himself. "Lloyd Munson." He writes the name on the board and adds a grainy image of an olive-skinned man with the longish, shaggy hairstyle that was no longer fashionable by 1979.

"Mills gave him up?" Sandra sits up quickly, and then wishes she hadn't as the room spins.

"Not exactly." Brian is removing his jacket. "Oh, I could murder a brew. Sandra?"

"Do I want to know what 'not exactly' means?"

Jack smiles thinly. "Not exactly. Let's just say that his silence spoke volumes. "

"And you were able to confront him with this juicy tidbit because?"

"Happy families," Brian replies cheerfully. "Munson was Powell's second cousin twice removed, and he worked for Eddie Bracknell. He was the obligatory dodgy accountant; had to be cookin' the books for Bracknell's 'company.'"

Sandra has known Brian long enough not to be fazed by the fact that he has done genealogical research out to Clayton Powell's second cousin twice removed. "Shit," she swears, even though she knows she should compliment Brian and Jack on a spot of solid detective work. "That brings us right back to sodding Bracknell, whom Fletcher still insists was the mastermind, although he has at least admitted that he gave the security code to Bracknell in return for a greater share of the profit."

"The profit he claims he never saw," says Jack.

"Exactly. And having seen Fletcher's financial records, unless he's stashed the money under his mattress for thirty-odd years, I believe him." She accepts the steaming cup of tea Brian hands her in her usual purple mug. "I wonder how Gerry's getting on."

The governor had dispatched the former D.S. a second time to talk to his old cronies on the flight squad and see if any of them could remember the slightest unimportant factoid or irregularity, but he has been gone over four hours. Typical Gerry. She phones him, but his mobile goes straight to voicemail.

"Maybe Bracknell was the mastermind," Brian suggests, crossing his ankles and resting his trainers on his meticulously arranged desk, "and things didn't go according to plan."

"Still possible," Jack agrees, "but then who did kill Bracknell, and what happened to all the stolen money?"

"And let me guess," Sandra chimes in, "Munson is dead, and we have no hard evidence linking him to the robbery or anything else. So drinks all around." She cautiously levies herself to her feet. Progress: the room only tilts.

"Got it in one," Brian says, "but there's still hope. I'm waiting for access to his bank statements."

"Unlikely anything will turn up, since none of the others saw a shilling." She sighs heavily. "I have to go report on our 'progress' to Strickland. If Gerry turns up, Jack, give him a right bollocking for me."

Gerry is finally back when she returns nearly an hour later, but Jack and Brian have vanished. "Brian's meeting with one of the forensic accountants at the Yard," Gerry says in answer to her unasked question, "and I don't know where Jack pissed off to, but he seemed to be in a hurry."

Sandra sits down heavily on the loveseat and then fears she won't be able to get up again. She hasn't had a full night's sleep in five days and is beyond knackered. "Did he shout at you?" she mumbles. "Because I'm too bloody tired."

"Yeah, yeah, consider me dressed down." Her eyes are closed, but she hears him come nearer and then stop right in front of her. "It's after five, Sandra. Let me buy you a drink, or better yet, dinner."

"I have to –"

"Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. When's the last time you had a proper meal?"

She blinks. "It's only Monday," she says dully.

"Sod Monday. What's going to happen?" Sandra retreats to her office, but he follows, undeterred.

"I'm not hungry," she insists. "I just need sleep."

"All right. You come home with me and I'll make dinner while you sleep."

The offer is tempting. She's tired enough to want to accept. One of Gerry's meals – pasta, vegetables, soup, hell, a curry – and sleep, blissful sleep in a soft bed, would be absolute heaven.

He sees the indecision on her face and strokes her cheek. "Sandra –"

She jerks away as if he's burned her. "Not here!" she hisses.

"There's no one to see." He grasps her upper arms gently but firmly and rubs them through her black cardigan. "Unless you agree with Brian that the spooks are watching." Gerry touches her face again, and this time she doesn't pull away, but closes her eyes. The lashes look dark against her unusually pale skin. "I miss you," he coaxes.

She smiles despite herself. "You should be sick of me, as much time as the four of us have spent together these last two weeks."

"Oh, no, that's Detective Superintendent Pullman, the governor. " The hand on her face moves into her hair, burrowing. "Where's the other you hiding?"

Her gaze is steady. "There's only one me, Gerry."

One of them moves, or more likely both of them, and their lips press together. When they break apart she says, "I need to check one thing." He steps back, giving her space, and looks on as she quickly does something on her computer. "You didn't actually learn anything today, did you?"

Gerry looks at her for so long without responding that she snaps, "Earth to Gerry."

He bites his lip. "I did, yeah," he says, but he sounds more like he's admitting a crime than uncovering evidence about one. "I found Claudia's best friend."

Sandra's eyebrows shoot skyward. "Why didn't you say so? Who is she? Does she know anything?"

"Her real name is Susan Collins, but she's going by Hampton now. Lives in Acton. The two of them were thick as thieves, and she lived opposite. I told her you'd be coming to see her tomorrow morning."

She frowns. "Me? Don't you want to go? I mean, it's a long shot, but this woman could finally tell us what we need to know about Claudia and Marissa."

Instead of answering he grabs her and kisses her urgently, holding her so firmly that it almost hurts. They're in the office and it's Monday and Sandra feels almost dizzy with fatigue, but she finds herself thinking, Why not? Why not? He is solid and warm and a much-needed reminder that this bloody awful investigation will end and life will go on.

Fortunately D.A.C. Strickland is already speaking to Sandra as he enters the outer office. Panicked, Sandra shoves Gerry so forcefully that, unprepared, he goes over backwards and crashes into a potted plant.

Strickland interrupts himself. "Sandra?"

"Gerry tripped," she explains, leaning down and extending a helping hand to hide the hot flush shee feels spreading over her face and chest. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I thought you'd gone home, Sandra. – All right there, Gerry? – I was going to leave a note, but as you're here – I just received a call from ex-D.C.I. Walter Hartwright, formerly of the fraud squad. He claims to have information relevant to your current investigation. Do ring him in the morning; he has the ear of the commissioner."

"Of course, sir," she replies a shade too quickly.

"Good night, sir," Gerry adds. "Have a lovely evening."

"That will never happen again," she says sternly in an undertone after her superior has left. She grabs her scarf and coat and pulls them on angrily. "What a bloody idiotic thing to have done. I could've just cocked up my entire career, not to mention our whole team." She stomps down the corridor, her bag slung over her shoulder, seemingly too angry with herself to spare a thought for her partner in crime.

Gerry usually doesn't seek to draw fire toward himself, but he offers, "I was also a participant, as I recall."

Sandra scowls as if she'd like to murder him and emphatically rings for the lift. "Yeah, and _I'm _your sodding governor, so that makes _me_ responsible."

She's still fuming when they reach the parking lot, so he's more than a little surprised when she pauses, her hand on the driver's side door handle, and demands, "What are you making for tea?"

He shoots her an admiring grin. "Fancy a roasted vegetable lasagna with an arugula and walnut salad?"

"Now you're talking."

He tucks her up on his sofa with a soft quilt and a glass of pinot gris and leaves her to decompress as he prepares the meal. This is the first time he has ever cooked just for her. He likes having her here, relaxing and watching telly in the next room. He's pretty sure he could easily get used to this.

Too bad he knows he won't have the chance.

Because odds are that after she meets SuSu Collins tomorrow morning, he'll be lucky if Sandra ever speaks to him again. More likely she'll murder him, but only after long, excruciating torture.

Like Scarlett O'Hara, he'll think about that tomorrow. Tonight he's going to make a fantastic meal for a beautiful woman, and they're both going to enjoy it, damn it.

_What does Susan Collins know? What happened to the Bracknell family? Stay tuned, kids. And thanks, as ever, for the reviews. The make my day._


	4. Fortune Cookies II

_Okay, kids, this is another long one. Herein our gang of top-notch investigators actually investigates something. I am shameless, and your reviews make me post faster._

**Chapter Four: Fortune Cookies II**

**Week Three: It Ain't Over 'til It's Over**

1.

He has to wake her up to eat, so he brings their plates and salad bowls to the sofa and settles beside her.

"I wonder what Hartwright knows, or thinks he knows," she muses, taking her first bite of salad.

"He worked the Bracknell fraud job in the winter and early spring of '79," Gerry responds instantly, apparently channeling Brian. "He was a junior detective at the time, and I was his sergeant."

She drops her fork with a ringing clatter. "You weren't in the fraud squad."

"I was for my sins," he replies gloomily. "Six months, from November of '78 through the CredEx job. That's why I was seconded in as soon as they suspected Bracknell. Fraud squad," he sneers. "Worst six months of my career, with that lot of ponces. Hartwright's a complete prat; watch out for him."

Sandra has put her bowl down and is glaring at Gerry. She obviously thinks he's the complete prat, or something much worse. "And despite the fact that you spent _six months_ investigating Bracknell for fraud, you saw no reason to mention this to me or Brian or Jack? Gerry, Christ!" She grabs her fork up and thrusts it at him. He's glad it's not a pitchfork. "Or did you tell Brian and Jack? Is this another one of those charming just-us-lads, don't-tell-the-gov –"

She jumps to her feet and he rescues the lasagna. "No. But it's not a state secret, Sandra. You already know what the fraud lads turned up: bugger all. Bracknell was dirty as hell, but his sodding hands were clean." He neatly places her plate on the coffee table and pours more wine into her glass. She's going to need it. "All we got was months of totally bleedin' useless surveillance and wire tape. Would you like to know the name of Bracknell's tailor, or how much he lost on a daily basis down the track? I can tell you. But as far as who planned the robbery, or who killed Ready Eddie, I know fuck all, just like I did thirty years ago."

"Then what the hell does Hartwright want? Have you talked with him?" she demands.

"No, Sandra, I haven't, because not only was I his superior at the time, so there's no way he knows anything more than I know, but he's a _tosser_, as you will discover for yourself tomorrow morning." He runs his fingers through his hair. This is not going well, and the worst is yet to come.

"I can't believe this." Hands on her hips, she slices into Gerry with the kind of totally infuriated glare he hasn't seen in quite a while. "Gerry, if there is anything else you've been keeping back, no matter how trivial, you'd better tell me right bloody now, or you'll never get within a hundred yards of UCOS ever again."

Shit. He's not even going to get his grace period until tomorrow morning. He'd hoped he could go with her to question SuSu Collins, and prove to Sandra that he was doing his damnedest to track down Claudia Bracknell, no matter how bad the result might make him look – _before_ Sandra talked to Hartwright. That obviously isn't going to happen, because he's going to have to tell her himself.

"It's not on my record," he begins, and she swears so violently that he's sure the neighbours must hear.

"Just wait," he interrupts. "Did you stop to ask yourself why I would've been recruited to the fraud squad? _Me?_"

"Takes one to know one?" she retorts nastily.

"Thank you, Sandra." He runs his fingers through his hair again and seizes his own wine glass, taking an undignified gulp before continuing. "Carole's from Crouch End."

Sandra rubs at her forehead, straining for some degree of calm. "Carole knew Eddie Bracknell."

"Not Eddie; Claudia."

"You were put on the fraud squad because in '78 you were married to Carole, who knew Claudia Bracknell." Sandra considers this and nods once. "Mhmm. So shagging Claudia fell within your remit, did it?"

He stares at her, feeling as if he's aged ten years in fifteen seconds, but says nothing.

"God, you're disgusting – and predictable." She shoves her hands into her pockets and stalks around the room. Her skin is hot with anger, and her headache rushes back full force. "I don't suppose your D.I. actually told you to screw Bracknell's wife – but then, it was the Met in the seventies, so maybe you got lucky." She's so angry that her straining voice actually trembles a little. "Even luckier than my sainted father."

He winces, and Sandra realizes that the thought has occurred to him; that, indeed, it's at least part of the reason he has kept this information to himself. This should not have anything to do with her. "Shit," she snaps, just for good measure. "This is what Hartwright wants to tell me?"

"He doesn't have any proof," Gerry replies miserably. "That, and he thinks I took a backhander."

"Oh, well, _fabulous_!" She throws her hands up. "You tell me exactly what happened, and if you leave out the tiniest detail, I will personally run you out of the Met, and I'll make the send-off you got last time look like a ticker-tape parade." She stops in front of Gerry, looming over him, and brings her face so close to his that he can feel her hot breath. "And if this can be construed as having any bearing on our case, I'll do it anyway. So start talking." Sandra leans back on her heel, folds her arms, and stares him down.

"I'd only met Claudia once when fraud brought me in," he begins hollowly. "At mine and Carole's wedding, for about two minutes. But in the late seventies, everyone in the Met was gunning for Bracknell, and when Superintendent Nesbitt found out Carole and Claudia had been school friends, he thought I was somehow going to be able to crack the case wide open and punch his ticket to Chief Super."

Sandra is doing her best to listen dispassionately, but a muscle in her jaw refuses to stop twitching. "That sounds about right," she grinds out. "Go on. Impress me."

To his credit, he meets her eyes steadily. "Carole, Claudia, and Susan Collins were inseparable when they were girls, but Carole lost touch with both of them when Claudia hooked up with Bracknell. Our wedding was the first time they'd seen each other in something like seven years. But Nesbitt had the bright idea that she and I start dropping by, and that after I while I should pop in alone."

"Obviously they both knew you were Old Bill," Sandra says, and at least she's no longer a mottled crimson. "And every week there was a new story in all the dailies about police corruption. So Nesbitt wanted Bracknell to think he could buy you."

"Yeah, but Bracknell didn't want to know, did he? He was such a cocky bastard that he seemed to like havin' me around, though, and I thought I could get something out of Claudia."

Her smile is completely without humour. "Which you did."

"But nothing that helped with either investigation then, and nothing that helps with ours. Or at least that's what I thought, until I found Susan Collins." Gerry stands, tired of letting Sandra tower over him. "Twenty to one, Claudia Bracknell is very much alive, she knows what happened to Eddie, and her best friend knows what happened to her."

"Oh, that's a spot of good detective work," Sandra snarls, "and if you'd bothered to share this information a week ago, you could've saved us all a lot of wasted time – and yourself a lot of pain."

"I've been looking for Susan, Sandra. Brian can tell you that. It was no easy job of work – she changed her name and vanished without a trace."

She doesn't respond.

"I want to go with you to talk to her."

"You're damn lucky I'm not sacking you right now," she returns. "So I wouldn't press my bloody luck if I were you." She stalks toward the door. "Don't bother coming in tomorrow. In fact, I haven't decided yet if you'll ever need to bother coming in again."

Against his better judgment he follows her to the door – not to ask if she'd like a take-away container. He grabs her arm. "Sandra –"

"Don't touch me." Her fury has gone cold, icy. "You have really bottled this."

Gerry is certain she means both the investigation and their relationship. "I was a total shit back then," he says, his grip loosening, but not releasing her. "I'm not proud of it, but you already know what I was like. And no matter what that arsehole Hartwright tells you, I was never bent, and I never took a bung off anybody." His fingers unclench, and she has been exerting so much counter force that she staggers backward into the corridor. "You know that too."

"Maybe not," she retorts, "but you're still a total shit. Christ, I marked your cards eight years ago. I don't know why I thought you could grow up at this late stage."

"Sandra –"

"Just stay away," she says flatly, turning on her heel. "From UCOS and certainly from me."

2.

Brian is sitting at his desk eating a breakfast of cold lo-mein from a take-away container when his governor enters the office. It doesn't exactly tax her powers of deduction to conclude that he hasn't stirred all night.

"Morning, Sandra."

"Does Esther know where you are?" she replies, slipping off her coat.

He nods distractedly. "I've been going through the files. I went back to Claudia Bracknell again. If she's alive, she can't just have disappeared. If she's dead, ditto. I've been looking for some detail, some clue."

"Find anything?" She smoothes her long black sweater over her hips and begins to measure out the coffee.

He hesitates. "Probably not, but – there is something you should know."

The look on his face tells her what's coming, and she reflects that it's just as well. Jack will have to be told too. "Go on," he says.

"Claudia was friends at school with a girl called Carole Montgomery, now –"

"Carole Standing," she supplies. "I know." She splashes milk into her mug, and at Brian's enquiring look explains, "Gerry told me last night. He's found Susan Collins, the other member of their merry trio. I have an appointment with her at half ten." Sandra crosses to Brian's desk and looks down at the top of his head. "Brian, where does Gerry's file say he was in the spring of '79?"

"Serious crime," he responds immediately, "Hampton Row; on attachment to the flight squad as of May third, to investigate the CredEx robbery."

Her hair shimmers under the fluorescent lights as she nods once and blows out a deep breath. "He was undercover with the fraud squad, actually."

Brian's eyebrows rise. "Eddie Bracknell."

"Eddie Bracknell," she confirms.

"What, his governor wanted him to use Carole's relationship with the wife to –"

"Exactly. Gerry got to know Claudia extremely well, being Gerry, but claims not to have extracted anything useful." She is pleased to hear the even tenor of her voice. "I have to make a call," she says, heading toward her own office. "For obvious reasons, Gerry won't be in today. Where's Jack?"

"On inquiries." Again Brian hesitates. "With Gerry. They've already been and gone."

3.

As she drives toward Acton, Sandra replays her conversation with Walter Hartwright.

"When I heard UCOS was re-investigating Bracknell and you had Gerry Standing on the job, I thought you were taking the piss," he said. "That's like having a fat kid investigate a robbery at a candy shop, innit?"

Hartwright's narrative amounted to what Gerry had led Sandra to expect, although he somewhat confusingly used the relationship Gerry had had with Claudia – "givin' 'er one on the quiet," he said – as iron-clad evidence that Gerry had accepted a bung from Ready Eddie, which Sandra failed to see unless the villain had been pimping out his wife in addition to his other civic-minded activities.

"I know Gerry Standing," Hartwright had said, and Sandra interrupted.

"No, _I _know Gerry Standing," she'd said coolly. "And he's many things, some of them not admirable. But he isn't bent."

She'd thanked Hartwright for his time and rung off, and wondered why the hell she felt obligated to defend Gerry, especially when she was also fantasizing about gruesome ways to off him.

From the passenger seat Brian informs her, "Lloyd Munson had a Swiss bank account. At the time of his death in 1981 it still contained nearly half a million pounds."

She smiles for the first time in what feels like days. "Definitely our third man," she says. "Tell me more."

"The account was opened in January of '79. On 3rd May Munroe deposited two million, three hundred thousand quid; on the tenth, he withdrew slightly more than half that amount."

Sandra looks in the rearview mirror as she passes an unbearably slow Vauxhall belching exhaust. "Splitting the take," she suggests. "With Claudia Bracknell, for instance."

"Over a million pounds would make it much easier for her to disappear."

"Let's just hope she shared her secret with her bosom buddy Susan Collins."

Detective Superintendent Pullman is all cool, polished politeness and even teeth as she and Brian sit in the study of a tremendously large house in Acton. It's a newish construction, too much marble, too many windows. Susan Hampton, nee Collins, is several years older than Sandra, big-boned and brassy. Her East End accent is marked. Questioning her is like speaking to a female Gerry. She has agreed to talk to the police, but obviously doesn't intend to _say_ anything. No, luv, she 'asn't seen Claudia since 1979. No, she doesn't remember exactly what day, but it was April, not May. No, she 'asn't 'eard from 'er. The money she came into was an inheritance; it had nothing to do with her old school friend. If they want to know where Claudia is, why don't they just ask their friend Gerry? Et cetera, et cetera.

Sandra looks completely unruffled as she says, "I'm sure we'll be in touch, Ms _Collins_. Thank you for your time." Brian can read the irritation in her eyes, though.

"Bloody woman," she mutters as they cross the bricked drive to Sandra's car. "She didn't utter a single true word, did she? Maybe she was involved in the robbery instead of Claudia."

"She hardly struck me as a criminal mastermind."

"Fair point." As she opens the car door, her mobile goes. "Jack, where the hell are you? Is Gerry with you?" she demands.

In response the older many says, "We've found something you should see."

On the way to meet Jack and Gerry, Sandra drops Brian off. He's eager to dive into the type of detective work he loves most, as Sandra wants him to learn anything he can about Susan Hampton. "After you've figured out how she really made her fortune, find out if she has any –"

"Children? Particularly, say, an adopted daughter now aged forty?"

She blinks. "Yeah, Sherlock," she says. "Go to it."

Gerry is standing outside the Victorian terrace house, smoking a cigarette. If she can judge by the pile of fag ends around his loafers, it isn't his first.

"Where's Jack?"

"Inside."

"I'm tempted to suspend you without pay right now for disobeying a direct order, so I hope you've turned up something good."

"Look, I'm sorry, gov. But you can't shut me out of this investigation. If you do, I can't prove myself, and you and Brian and Jack won't ever trust me again."

Sandra's first impulse is to tell him to sod off, but that's anger. She huffs out a shallow breath. "What are we doing here?"

"Carole lives on the first floor. She has something to show you."

As they plod up the stairs Gerry mutters, "I know I deserve whatever I've got coming to me, but she's got the piss scared out of her, yeah?" He steps aside to let Sandra precede him into the flat, and she shoots him a hostile look that he has no trouble reading. _You think I'd take pleasure in torturing your ex-wife? As if she didn't suffer enough whilst she was married to you_.

Carole and Jack are sitting on the plush blue sofa, but she jumps up the instant Sandra appears. "Am I going to be arrested?" she demands, her eyes huge.

Sandra manages a very slight smile. "I highly doubt that, Carole, but you do need to tell me everything you know about Eddie and Claudia Bracknell."

"I don't know anything about Eddie, except what I read in the papers." She links her long, thin fingers together and gestures for Sandra to sit in an overstuffed armchair opposite her.

"Claudia, then."

Carole darts an anxious look at her ex-husband, who nods encouragingly. "I knew Claudia at school. There were three of us who went about together: Claudia, SuSu Collins, and me. Just after we finished Claudia met Eddie and, well, everyone knew he was a villain, even then. He was a little too flash, you know? A lot too flash, actually. So we lost touch, the way you do."

"She came to your wedding," Sandra puts in, her voice a low, neutral murmur.

Carole frowns. "We were friends for fifteen years," she says, a hostile edge creeping into her voice. "She and Eddie came, yes. So a few years later, when the CID were investigating Eddie –" She breaks off and darts a sidelong look at Gerry.

"She knows that bit," he mutters, looking ashamed of himself, but at least able to spare Carole the need to recite the gory details of his infidelity.

"How many times did you see the Bracknells during that period?"

The other woman considers. "About four, I guess? The first was around Christmas. Then Claudia invited us round for dinner toward the end of January, I think, and we saw them a couple of times in the spring for drinks." Carole's expression tightens and grows increasingly grim, and Sandra knows she's remembering a series of painful episodes.

"All right," she says softly. Unfortunately sparing people's feelings is not part of the detective superintendent's job description. "Carole, I have to ask you: after you found out about Claudia and Gerry, did you confront her?"

Carole bites her lower lip and carefully avoids looking in her ex-husband's direction. "I didn't want to go to the house," she says quietly, "because of the surveillance, so I rang up and asked her to meet me in Hyde Park. Claudia was – very calm. She didn't bother denying it, but…"

Sandra leans forward. "But?"

Carole's expression is searching, as if she hopes Sandra, as a woman, will understand. "She said she was truly sorry, but she'd had her reasons, and I shouldn't worry. She seemed so sincere. She just kept telling me over and over not to worry, because she cared too much about me _and_ Gerry to hurt us. It was strange. And then before she left she hugged me and told me I'd always been a true friend. So when the robbery took place just a couple of weeks later, and both she and Eddie went missing…"

"You assumed, like everyone else, that they'd been planning to disappear." Sandra leans back. "And you didn't tell Gerry. Technically you withheld information, but at the distance of this many years I don't –"

"Show her the postcard," Jack interrupts.

Carole rises, walks over to the floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the entire wall, and extracts a discoloured envelope. From it she removes a postcard, which she hands to Sandra. The photograph, which has the washed-out colorization characteristic of mass-produced images from the early 80s, depicts a seaside Spanish resort town. Sandra flips it over quickly. The card is addressed to both Carole and Gerry, and contains only a brief scrawled message:

_We're safe. I'm sorry for everything._

_Love, Claudia_

The postmark is Barcelona, dated from the summer of 1982.

"Do you recognize the handwriting?"

Carole nods quickly. "Oh, it's Claudia's. By the time this arrived, Gerry had already moved out, and I – I didn't want to rake up the past, so I never told him." She bites her lip again. "Am I in trouble?"

Sandra sighs.

"No," Jack reassures softly. "But this may help us determine what really happened to Claudia Bracknell."

"We should get it to forensics," says Gerry. "Have them check the saliva on the stamp for DNA."

"Get that postmark analysed, too," Sandra adds quietly, getting to her feet. Suddenly she feels extremely tired – maybe because she was too tired to sleep last night, despite her exhaustion. Her eyes meet Carole's. "Did you ever meet, or did Claudia mention, Lloyd Munson?"

Carole shakes her head and absently reaches up to touch her curls. "Is Gerry in trouble?" she whispers after checking that he and Jack are out of earshot.

Sandra's eyes narrow. What is it with women he's screwed over rushing to Gerry's defense? "Leave Gerry to me."

Sandra gets into her car and drives away without a word to the other two. She's royally pissed off, yes, but she's also perplexed. UCOS has had this sodding case for nearly three weeks. Why didn't Gerry just _tell_ them about Carole and Claudia? They could've talked to Carole and gotten confirmation that Claudia was alive, or had at least outlived her husband, long before this point. Sandra could cheerfully throttle him.

_At least you didn't spend the night last night_, she thinks, and then her forehead crinkles with her scowl. That has nothing to do with this.

Jack is alone in the office, and begins speaking to her the instant she walks through the door, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. "Gerry had no reason to think Carole might've heard from Claudia," he says, fixing her with the firm, no-nonsense gaze that always worked when he was her boss. "Quite the contrary, considering he never knew until today that Carole had learned about their affair. Like everyone else, Gerry's spent thirty years thinking Claudia was living a life of luxury with her dear husband."

"He still dropped a bullock," Sandra replies tightly, hanging up her black coat. "He should've told us everything at the beginning of this investigation."

"Quite," Jack agrees calmly, folding his hands together. "But without him we wouldn't have Susan Collins and we wouldn't have the postcard."

"I should bloody sack him, Jack," she grinds out, slamming her mug down next to the kettle.

"So sack him." Jack's voice contains a hint of challenge. "Then what?"

Speak of the devil. Gerry enters, looks apprehensively at Sandra, and crosses to his desk. "I put a rush on the postcard, so with luck we should have it back by the end of the week." He cautiously meets the gov's eyes. "I didn't know, all right? I screwed up, but I didn't know Carole had found out about me and Claudia, and I had no idea about the postcard."

"Oh, and you just didn't think it warranted a mention that at the time they both disappeared, you were getting a leg over our murder victim's wife, did you?" she returns frigidly. "Christ, Gerry, what is wrong with you? You're well too old still to have your brain in your dick."

"Sandra," Jack cuts in quietly, but she and Gerry ignore his attempt to intercede.

Gerry's jaw is rigid. "You're right," he says evenly. "And you were right before, too: Nesbitt never told me to shag Claudia, but yeah, he knew what I was like, and he definitely didn't discourage me. You think it was top secret if Hartwright knew? So when the whole thing went tits up, Nesbitt and I looked like a pair of pillocks, and we kept it quiet. Claudia lettin' me give 'er one looked to us like it fit right in with Bracknell's plan. It was vintage Ready Eddy: let the filth think they're putting one over him, and all the time he's laughin' in his sleeve." The more upset he becomes, the further east his pronunciation creeps. "You'll 'ave my resignation by the end of the day."

Sandra closes her eyes, fighting for calm. "No," she says. "Enough with the adolescent dramatics. Just go home, Gerry, and bloody well stay there this time –" He begins to protest, but she holds her hand up, palm out. "At least until we get the postcard back from forensics. Then we'll reevaluate the situation."

Gerry looks at her and she looks back, so for a moment they're engaged in a silent staring contest.

"Go home," Sandra repeats in a lower voice. "And don't let me see or hear from you until next week."


	5. Fortune Cookies III

**Chapter Five: Fortune Cookies III (of III)**

**Week Four**

_Someone else's onion may be your water lily._

1.

Sunday dinner is in progress – Gery feels like it's never going to end – when there's a knock at the door. Stamping down a momentary flicker of hope – she wouldn't come here – he opens the door and finds himself admitting both Brian and his bicycle.

"Sorry to interrupt," his friend says, peering into the dining area. "Ay-up, what's for dinner?"

"Spaghetti bolognese. Come in the kitchen and I'll get you some."

Brian props up his bike and trails after Gerry, removing his helmet as he walks. "The gov doesn't know I'm here," he says, "so keep stum, will you?"

Gerry snorts. "I don't think you have to worry, mate. We're not exactly on speaking terms these days. But keep your voice down; the girls don't know." He scoops pasta into a bowl, ladles on the thick sauce, and hands it to the other man, who begins to gobble it down immediately. "Did you get forensics back on the postcard?" Gerry demands impatiently. "I've been going crazy here with bugger-all to do."

"Not yet," Brian replies around an impressive mouthful. "I'm here about Susan Collins." Gerry has no choice but to wait while Brian swallows. "On the surface, her background checks out. Unremarkable school record, spotty employment history – waitress, bartender, working in a salon – until 1981, when she inherits over a million pounds from a Brian C. Kendall, quits work, and builds her current home in Acton. The same year she begins to pay the school tuition of her niece, Penelope Dalkin, at a fancy boarding school in Switzerland." Brian reaches into one of his coat's many voluminous pockets, fumbles for a few seconds, and holds up a photocopied school photo.

"Yes!" Gerry exclaims, pumping his fist in the air. "Marissa Bracknell!"

"Don't get too excited," Brian cautions. "There's no record of Penelope Dalkin after leaving school, and so far nothing to tie Susan's 'inheritance' to the bank robbery."

Gerry considers for a moment, feeling slightly buoyant for the first time in quite a while. "1981," he repeats. "What do you think the odds are that she also applied for a passport that year and decided she fancied a holiday abroad – Spain, say?"

Brian's eyes light up and he chuckles rather horribly. "Good man!" he exclaims, whacking his friend on the back. "She goes to Spain, sees Claudia – and probably the daughter as well – and comes back a wealthy woman. I can't get air travel records from thirty years back, but I can check passport applications!" Brian drops his empty bowl into the sink. "I'll let you know the minute I turn anything up," he promises, "and we should have the lab results tomorrow. Chin up, mate, and soldier bravely on!"

2.

Jack strides into the office with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Susan Collins inherited over a million quid from Brian C. Kendall upon his death in the summer of 1981, did she?" he asks rhetorically. "That's very interesting, since Kendall – Collins's uncle and only living relative at the time – was a retired metal worker living on the dole until four months before he died." He smacks the papers down on his desk and smiles, grimly triumphant.

"I don't suppose he won the lottery," Brian comments, peering around his computer screen.

"I'll tell you what else is interesting," Sandra calls, and emerges from her office holding a manila folder. "The forensic analysis of Carole's postcard." Out of habit she crosses over to stand by the dry-erase board. "The postcard is Spanish, as is the stamp – the post_mark_, however, is fake." She allows herself a small smile. "According to our graphologist, the handwriting is a perfect match to a sample on file from Claudia Bracknell; DNA from the stamp is not, nor is it from a near relative of Claudia's."

"I gather we don't have Susan Collins's DNA on file," Jack murmurs.

"Unfortunately not, although she was brought in for soliciting in 1975. Charges were later dropped." Sandra sits, resting her elbows on her knees, and considers. "Jack, can you trace Brian Kendall's sudden good fortune?"

"Straight back to a numbered Swiss account, but no further."

"Shit, shit, _shit_," she swears. "We're so close, but we don't have a shred of proof tying anyone but Lloyd Munroe to the robbery, and _no_ evidence relating to the murder." Sandra sighs deeply. "Right. What are we thinking? Eddie Bracknell plans the robbery, person or persons unknown top him, perhaps Munroe, who gets the entire take, leaving the other two in the lurch; he subsequently splits the proceeds with Claudia Bracknell, who has already fled the country with her daughter. Two years pass, Munroe dies of cancer, and Claudia gives almost her entire share to her friend Susan Collins, who also assumes financial responsibility for her daughter." As she finishes, Sandra is already shaking her head.

"The fact that Claudia and Marissa disappeared before the robbery means that Claudia must have known about it in advance and planned to leave the country. Hence the chat with Carole," says Brian. "But did she plan to disappear with her husband, or did she already know that he'd be disappearing permanently?"

"Munroe gave half the dosh to Claudia almost immediately," Sandra reflects. "So I reckon there are two possibilities: he killed Eddie and Claudia knew about it, so he was afraid she'd grass him up; or they were in it together."

"Maybe he was in love with her," Jack suggests. "The tried and true motives are often the best ones, and she was gorgeous."

All three of them look at the thirty-year-old photo clipped to the board. It isn't hard to see why Gerry was drawn to the stunning brunette.

"So we're saying she was havin' it off with all three of them – her husband, Gerry, and Munroe?" Brian clarifies. "That must've kept her busy."

"And then why pass her entire share on to Susan Collins?" Sandra wonders.

"But only after Munroe was already dead," Jack points out.

Sandra realizes that she's waiting for a fourth voice to chime in. "You lot keep digging," she says, and retreats to her office, closing the door firmly behind her.

Gerry answers his mobile before it has even fully rung one time. "Susan Collins," Sandra says briskly. "I'm having her brought in, so you'd best come too."

"I'm on my way, gov."

3.

The interview room is uncomfortably cool, and Susan Collins/Hampton shivers as she looks from Gerry to Sandra and back.

"Staying silent isn't going to help you now, Susan," Sandra says, "and it isn't going to help Claudia or Marissa."

Susan stares back, frightened but defiant.

"Here's what we know, Susan." Sandra reaches into her bag and produces the envelope containing the postcard, which she removes and places on the table right in front of the other woman. Susan starts slightly and Sandra smiles a predatory smile. "Familiar, isn't it? I bet it brings back a lot of memories. That's Claudia's handwriting – but the DNA on the stamp is yours."

Sandra doesn't bat an eyelash as she tells the lie, which the other woman swallows whole, because her response is a defiant, "So mailing a postcard's illegal, is it?"

"No, of course not," Gerry replies with aplomb. "But you didn't mail it. You probably forgot, yeah? So you faked the postmark – not a bad job, by the way – and hand-delivered it to my ex-wife."

"I didn't," Susan says, having recovered some of her composure since she doesn't realize she's already admitted as much, "but so what if I did?"

"So that makes you the only person who knows where the prime suspect in Eddie Bracknell's murder is," Sandra replies evenly, almost smiling.

The other woman gasps out a laugh. "You think _Claudia_ killed Eddie? She loved the son of a bitch."

"Loved him so much she was having it off with two other men?" Sandra returns evenly.

"Two? No, there was only one, and Eddie knew all about that. He wasn't opposed to 'er keepin' the filth busy, was he?" She cuts her eyes at Gerry. "The years 'aven't been kind, Gerry."

"To you either," Gerry responds cheerily. "But then, you've got all that lovely money to keep you comfortable, haven't you, SuSu?"

"Why don't you tell us about that, if you don't want to talk about Claudia and Eddie?" Sandra suggests. "How you inherited a fortune from your uncle who was on the dole."

Susan doesn't have a ready answer for that.

"Claudia and Lloyd planned the robbery," Gerry continues conversationally, "and they planned to run away together, yeah? Or at least that was Lloyd's plan."

"But when no suspicion fell on Munroe, he realized he should stay in London until things cooled down. Unfortunately for him, he died in the meantime," Sandra picks up. "Upon which Claudia gave all her money to your terminally ill uncle, with the understanding that you would assume custody of her twelve-year-old daughter. Those are the facts. Now why don't you interpret them for us?"

"We're the bill, you know," Gerry puts in. "So we're fairly dim."

"Where did Claudia go after she killed her husband?"

Susan's nostrils flare. "Claudia never hurt anyone" she snaps. "And she didn't have anything to do with that robbery."

There's a tap at the door, and then Jack appears. "You need to hear this."

Sandra glances at the clock. "Interview suspended at 12:42." She presses a button and stops the tape.

Carole Standing is sitting on the edge of their sofa with a cup of tea and a muffin. She automatically looks toward the doorway when Sandra and Gerry enter.

"Thank you so much for coming in," Sandra says. "Gerry thinks you may be able to give us some helpful information about Susan Collins."

"I'm glad to tell you anything I know," Carole replies anxiously, toying with the muffin wrapper.

"Carole, did Susan go out much when you were at school?"

Gerry's question obviously comes as a surprise. "You mean to parties and clubs and things? She _was_ a bit wild."

"With blokes," Gerry clarifies.

Carole frowns. "Not really, I suppose. She never had a fella or anything like that. Really she spent all her time with Claudia. Wherever Claudia went, there you'd find SuSu."

Sandra and Gerry exchange a glance. "Fiver," he says, standing up again.

"Shut up, Gerry."

"Welsher."

"Just because she wasn't the school slag, it doesn't make her a lesbian," Sandra mutters as they walk back down the hall.

"A wild child in the sixties who partied all the time but didn't bother with the blokes? Yeah, you're right: I'm making a totally unfounded assumption."

They resume their interviewing positions. Sandra leans forward slightly. "You know, Susan, I believe you. Claudia didn't kill her husband – because she did love him, even if she was getting a bit on the side." She tilts her head slightly, her expression sympathetic. "But there was no love lost between you and Eddie, was there?"

Susan defensively folds her arms across her chest. "He was a villain," she replies, irritated to point out the obvious. "Not exactly known for their genteel ways, are they?"

"He wasn't even a proper villain, was he?" Gerry asks rhetorically.

Susan blinks. "How d'you mean?"

"Too good to dirty his lily-white hands. He made everyone around him do it for him – especially Claudia." Gerry shrugs. "Did she love Munroe, or was he just business too?"

"They weren't at it, them two. He loved her, like."

"So is that why he planned the robbery?" Sandra asks coolly.

"He was going to get the money and take Claudia away."

"How did he convince Claudia to go along with that, if she loved her husband?"

"He didn't, did he?" Gerry interjects. "He was Eddie's right hand. So when Munroe told Claudia to get herself and her little girl ready to go abroad, she never knew the plan wasn't Eddie's. I bet she never knew half the dodges he got up to."

"She didn't want to know," Susan admits. "But she never would've left him. Never."

Gerry levels an appraising look at her. "But you knew what Munroe was planning. He needed your help."

"And you gave it willingly, because you wanted Claudia away from Eddie too," Sandra picks up seamlessly. She and Gerry are a good team, at least in an interview. "So which one of you pulled the trigger?"

"No one shot him," Susan shoots back immediately. "Eddie was suffocated."

The predatory smile returns. "Gold star," Sandra compliments. "Of course, no one knew that except the murderer and his or her accomplice, so at the very least you've just admitted to being an accessory." The Detective Superintendent watches the last vestiges of colour drain from the other woman's face. "Unless, of course, you tell us that Claudia gave you that information."

Susan takes a tremulous breath. "No," she says firmly. "She only went to Spain because she thought Eddie was going to join her, and when Lloyd opened a bank account for her and deposited half the money, she never spent a penny. She was working as a waitress to get enough so she and Marissa could live."

Shit, thinks Sandra, she's going to cry. I hate it when they cry. "Then why didn't she come back home?"

"Because she knew your lot would've thought exactly what you do think: that she killed Eddie. And then what would've happened to Marissa?"

"What changed in the summer of 1981?" Gerry asks evenly. "Why did Claudia decide to touch the money?"

Susan swallows hard. "Lloyd turned up down the Slaughtered Lamb one day – I was working there, tending bar. He looked like shit." She sniffles. "He was dying, and he was worried about Claudia. He'd been to see her a couple of times, but she didn't want anything to do with him. I… I'd not had any contact with her. But Lloyd told me where she and Marissa were, so I got a passport and I went to Spain."

"And Munroe?"

"By then it was May – sixteenth May – and Lloyd was dead." Susan suddenly breaks down and begins to sob furiously. Sandra suspects it has little to do with the late accountant. Her eyes roll toward the ceiling.

Gerry has a softer touch. "Did Claudia know you were in love with her?"

Susan wipes at her eyes, leaving streaks of mascara and liner smeared over her cheekbones. "That summer she told me she'd always known, like, and she loved me too, even though it wasn't the same way. She forgave me for Eddie because she knew I'd done it for her. That's why she wanted me to have Marissa."

"She was ill," Sandra fills in. "What did she have, Susan?"

"Leukemia. By the time I got over there, she was dying. She let me stay with her until the end – almost four months." Susan's sobs subside and she almost smiles as she remembers what was obviously, in a bittersweet way, a happy time, and then looks from Sandra to Gerry and back again. "I just loved her so much," she says. "I did it all because I loved her."

4.

"So," Sandra says Tuesday morning as she and her three boys lounge around sipping coffee and tea, "it's a result, at least. We can prove that Munroe planned the robbery and framed Eddie Bracknell, and Susan Hampton will go down for murder."

No one is exactly exuberant. Sandra stands, reminding herself that her job is to lead the troops. "This investigation has generated a colossal amount of paperwork, so let's crack on with it."

She has to deal with Gerry, still. The task is not an appealing one. This situation calls for subtlety, and she's feeling as subtle as a sledgehammer today. She wants to shake Gerry and scream at him. She wants to erase the last six weeks and go back to the way things were before her mother's death. She wants to kiss him until he can't breathe.

Shit. She knew this wouldn't always be easy, but did it have to get so complicated so quickly?

She waits until 3:00, then pops her head out of her office. "Let's knock off early, boys, and head to the pub, my shout. This may not be exactly the result we wanted, but you've done amazing work and solved a case that should've been unsolvable. Order me a large one." She squares her shoulders. "Gerry?"

She stands, waiting for him to sit, then props herself against the edge of her desk. "Look," she begins flatly, holding his gaze with hers, "I'm not giving you the sack, all right? And in the last couple of weeks the glamour has worn off shouting at you. So let's just go with, you cocked up once when you decided to screw Claudia Bracknell on the not-so-quiet. You cocked up exponentially when you didn't tell me everything on the first day of this investigation. If you ever, ever do anything remotely suspect again, I'll have your badge and your balls."

Not being an entirely stupid man, Gerry refrains from pointing out that he doesn't actually have a badge.

"Consider this an official reprimand."

He nods.

"Right, then. Pub?" she continues, beginning to gather her things.

Gerry watches her, knowing he should be relieved, but somehow he isn't. He's deeply uneasy. "I'm sorry, Sandra."

"Yeah, I know." She straightens and reaches for her coat – black and grey today. "You might say that to Jack and Brian as well."

"No, I mean I'm really, really sorry." He wants her to look at him and feel that connection they've had for the last few months. This closed-off, walled-away calm is unnerving. Sandra doesn't seem angry; she's resigned. Calm. Disappointed. Gerry has disappointed too many people he cares about. He'd feel much less like a shit heel if she'd just start screaming at him.

Instead she looks at him solemnly, thoughtful and sad, and he feels sure she understands. She sighs. "Come on," she says.

He shouldn't push, he tells himself repeatedly as they walk the short distance to their local. The heels of her boots clack noisily against the concrete, and to their rhythm he repeats, Don't push, don't push. After all, this is his mantra with Sandra.

Sod it.

Gerry grabs her arm and she stops abruptly, quizzical. Pissed off. Maybe uncomfortable underneath. I'm no good at taking the silent treatment."

"I'm not being particularly silent," she returns. "I just don't have a great deal to say to you right now." Her jaw is set, her gloved hands shoved into her pockets against the raw afternoon.

"Well, I have some things to say to you."

"You should've said them three weeks ago."

"Yeah, well, that's the story of my life, innit? It's always too little, too late, and good ol' Gerry cocks everything up." He is angry, but at himself, not her. This isn't the first time he's thought there might actually be something wrong with him, something missing or misshapen, that makes him do this.

"I've never thought you were bent," she says, and her tone is marginally softer.

"I'm not talking about the job." He hasn't released her arm, and now his half-frozen fingers move over the wool of her sleeve, testing the bone and muscle beneath. "What I want to know is whether or not you trust me."

Sandra's eyes fasten on his, studying intently, but she doesn't answer. "I don't understand why you didn't just tell me."

The truth is very short. "I was ashamed, Sandra. To me, what happened back then is the lowest thing I've ever done."

She glances away. "Gerry, it's no secret that you've always liked a bit on the side. And yes, getting your work mixed up in that was incredibly stupid reckless, destructive, whatever, even for you." She gestures impatiently as if waving it all away. "I thought we were past the lies of omission and futile efforts to cover things up. I do know you. We've worked together for eight bloody years."

"But that's why." He sees her confusion and rushes to clarify. "If I told you I'd offed some poor bugger, that would change your opinion of me, yeah? All right. So I didn't want you looking at me and seeing the dirtiest thing I've ever done." There is still a tiny line between her brows as she frowns. Shit. "You haven't realized," he says, and feels even worse.

Sandra blows a breath out through her nose, impatient for this awkward conversation to be over. "You've cheated on plenty of women. It's hardly one of your best qualities, but I don't see why this –"

"She was pregnant."

For an instant she thinks he means Claudia; then the floodgates open and understanding pours in. "Carole."

"Paula was born May 22nd. So now you know: I'm the sort of bloke who shag's his wife's school friend, who's married to the object of a major investigation, whilst his wife is very pregnant with their first child." Gerry finally releases her arm and half turns away from her to stare sightlessly into the road. He looks so disgusted that for a moment she can't find any words.

"You're right," she says quietly after a few minutes, her low voice almost lost amidst the traffic noise. "That was an incredibly shitty thing to do, and if it were 1979, I wouldn't even want to know you. But Gerald –" She almost smiles. "I've never thought I would've wanted to know you in 1979. And it's not 1979."

His expression turns more miserable, if possible. Can her opinion of him be that low? "You don't care."

Her response is a one-shouldered shrug. "I care more that you're so ashamed of what you did thirty years ago that you were willing to risk your livelihood, your friendships, and your reputation to keep us from knowing about it."

"Not the lads." He shoves his own hands into his pockets now, embarrassed. "You. You're the last bleedin' person in the world I ever wanted to know about Claudia and Carole."

She considers this for a long moment. "I know what you're like," she says. "You go ahead and interpret that."

It could mean a couple of very different things, he decides, and it's best not to analyse it. "Are we all right?"

Sandra's expression is inscrutable. "I don't know, Gerry," she says slowly. "Buy us all a couple of rounds, and then we'll see."

_Let me know you're still out there, and maybe I'll come back with something a bit lighter and fluffier for next time. Also, that onion/water lily thing was an actual fortune someone I was eating with once received._


	6. Greeks Bearing Gifts

_A/N: Warning to readers who may be, like the author herself, sarcastic and/or cynical: this chapter has an unusually high level of shmoop content, which may be toxic to some. In other words, "Promised warm fuzzies herein."_

**Chapter Six: Greeks Bearing Gifts***

"Here's hoping this goes better than last time," Gerry mutters, pulling out a chair at the table set for five. "You'd think if he's only going to treat us once every four years or so, he could splash out a bit."

"That's what I like to see, Gerry." Sandra smirks as she settles between Brian and the empty place. "Gratitude."

"Maybe he only eats one type of food," Brian suggests from his seat between Sandra and Gerry. "Have any of you ever actually seen him eat anything?"

"Only if coffee counts," Jack replies darkly.

"Here he is, so behave, you lot." As she speaks, Sandra offers a muted smile to her boss.

"Ah, sir," Jack greets Strickland, rising to shake the younger man's hand. Sandra doesn't fail to notice that Jack is pouring the hail-fellow-well-met on a bit, as if to obliterate the memory of their last, aborted attempt to share a meal here with the D.A.C. Fortunately this evening there isn't a Hanson in sight.

"Everyone likes Greek food?" Strickland asks blithely as he settles in, tuning a brighter smile on Sandra.

"It'd be a bit too late if we didn't," Brian mumbles at his menu, just loudly enough for everyone to hear. Sandra shoots a glare in his direction before turning one of her radiant, all-teeth smiles on her superior.

"These three are old bill, sir. They'll eat anything."

Strickland nods as he reaches for a warm piece of pita bread. "I know a meal isn't much, but I wanted to do something to recognise your recent exceptional work. That you were able to solve both the CredEx bank robbery and the murder of one of London's most notorious underworld figures is an achievement that truly demonstrates both the high calibre of your skillset and your outstanding work ethic. Not that I'm surprised." He focuses on the gov. "It's seldom anything other than a great pleasure to have UCOS in my section."

Gerry and Jack exchange a glance. _Do you think he wrote that out and memorized it?_

"Thank you, sir."

"Sandra, after all this time, I don't think the police hierarchy would collapse if you called me Rob on occasion."

This time Brian, Jack, and Gerry all share a significant look. _Bloody hell, again?_

Sandra's smile dims slightly, but she simply sips her water.

The meal is uneventful and even reasonably pleasant. Gerry, Brian, and Jack each get their respective moment in the sun as they recount rather colourful anecdotes from their long careers, but Strickland opens the floodgates when he asks, "So Jack, what was D.S. Sandra Pullman like?"

"She hasn't changed," Jack replies briefly, meeting the eyes of the woman in question. "She was a good copper."

Jack isn't exactly one for handing out effusive praise. Gerry watches the soft smile that curves Sandra's wide mouth.

_Uh-oh, Gerald. Don't focus on her mouth_.

It's Thursday, and Gerry would be telling a hell of a porky if he denied being extremely, er, interested in how Sandra is planning – or not planning – to end the evening. They haven't had a real conversation about anything not work-related in the last seven days, and while she has been treating him more or less normally, he can't tell what she's thinking.

God knows he's been trying. Gerry Standing has been on his very, very best behaviour.

Fortunately Jack distracts him by telling them how Sandra reacted when, on her first murder inquiry, the chief suspect she was questioning stopped the interview and asked her, none too politely, to "Get me a cuppa rosie and a biscuit, would you, sweetheart?"

"He went down," Sandra puts in smugly, finishing the last of the white wine in her glass.

"For murder?" Gerry asks, propping his elbows on the table. "Or for callin' you sweetheart, gov?"

"You lived to tell the tale," Brian points out.

"Barely," Sandra shoots back, and they all laugh as Strickland looks on, bemused.

"That was very nice, sir," Sandra says as she and the D.A.C. lead the way out into the now rain-soaked evening. She reaches instinctively for her umbrella and realizes it's innocently and uselessly propped up in the corner of her office. Before she even has time to swear, she finds herself beneath the shelter of her boss's brolly.

"Cheers, thanks, sir," she says with a quick smile.

"_Rob_." The single word is emphatic. "It's early yet. Can I buy you a drink, Sandra?"

She hesitates for only an instant, but Gerry pipes up from behind them. "I think we're all heading to the pub, aren't we, lads? So you come along with us and we'll buy you one."

Strickland doesn't look wildly thrilled, but he readily agrees. After all, Gerry thinks, Sandra is sharing his umbrella as they walk down the rain-spattered street. _Pillock_, Gerry mentally adds, ducking into a doorway where it's dry enough to light a cigarette.

At the pub there are no empty tables, so Strickland gets Sandra all to himself at one end of the highly polished bar, while Gerry is stuck way down at the other end, with Jack, Brian, and Strickland himself separating him from the governor.

_It's fine_, he thinks, sipping the foam from the surface of his pint. _She's not stupid; she won't go home with the D.A.C._

_Nah, but she'll go home with you, which is entirely different, is it?_

He wants to insist to that extremely irritating little voice that it is different, because they've known each other for so long and they're friends as well as colleagues and… and…

_Bollocks._

Maybe Gerry is just imagining things. He's doing that thing blokes do: he wants to sleep with Sandra, so he thinks every other man in the place (Jack and Brian excepted) wants to shag her rotten too.

"That's getting a bit thick for me," comments Brian as he comes around to stand on the other side of Gerry.

"What, Strickland trying to pull her?" Jack puts in, hellishly amused.

"Maybe we should go over there," Gerry manages through clenched teeth.

Jack raises his eyebrows. "I don't think she'd appreciate that, do you? She can look after herself."

"And maybe she doesn't want us interfering anyway." Brian is crunching through a dish of bar snacks, leaving peanut and pretzel detritus in his wake.

That's exactly what Gerry's afraid of.

He has no claim on Sandra. She's certainly not interested in asserting any claim on him – but who are they kidding? She doesn't have to. It's not as if scores of women are beating his door down. He's chuffed not to have to trawl online poker sites any more.

She'd pretty much told Gerry that being with him was a step above shagging a total stranger.

Strickland's not a stranger.

A bit of a ponce, yeah.

Gerry looks over at the D.A.C. and his governor. Their heads are tilted together and he has his hand on her shoulder.

Scratch that. Total ponce.

But well-educated, Sandra's age, and probably not a total fright to look at, if you like that sort of thing (which Gerry doesn't, at all).

Brian drains his tonic water. "Jack, fancy giving me a lift home?"

"I can think of nothing I'd like better," he responds drily.

Sandra has turned on her bar stool. "You're off?" As the other two say their good-nights to Strickland, Sandra sips her wine and regards Gerry steadily. "You too, then?"

The question is totally casual, he thinks, and he can't read her expression. "I might hang about for a bit."

She smiles slightly. Is she amused by him, or pleased? "Then have another drink," she invites. "My shout."

"Nah, I've got it." He orders another, and as he stands waiting, he watches Sandra and the D.A.C. gather their belongings and move to a vacated two-person table. Sandra tosses her coat over the back of one of the chairs and immediately draws up a third. Strickland asks a question and she gestures toward Gerry as she responds. Strickland's expression is not that of a man best pleased.

_Good,_ Gerry thinks gleefully. _Let's keep it that way._ He may not go happy tonight, but he'll consider a minor victory won as long as the other man doesn't either. He seizes his second pint and saunters over to the table.

Twenty minutes later he has realized that this is set to be a war of attrition. Strickland isn't going to make a move on Sandra in front of Gerry, since to do so would be an enormous cock-up, professionally speaking. Neither is he going to leave before Gerry. The older man is starting to worry about how long he can hang about before Strickland gets suspicious. He'll park outside and wait it out in the Stag, if he has to, before he leaves the field of battle.

Sandra excuses herself to go to the toilet, and Gerry sees an opportunity. He pulls his cigarettes from his pocket. "Just popping out," he breezily informs Strickland, whose back is to both the entrance and the door that leads down to the toilets. Gerry crosses the pub, glancing back once at the D.A.C. for safety's sake, then trots down the stairs.

Sandra does a double-take when she emerges from the loo. "Taken to hanging round the ladies' for a cheap thrill, Gerald?" she asks lightly.

"Just be straight with me, right? Robby boy out there has stuck himself in for the duration, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I wasn't really planning to leave any time soon myself. So which one of us do you want just to piss off?"

Her eyes glimmer. "How do you know it isn't both of you?"

"I don't," he admits frankly. "I'm not a mind-reader. So do you want me to go home, drink me Ovaltine, and leave you to lover boy out there?"

Unmistakably, Sandra Pullman giggles. Then she says what currently seems to Gerry Standing like the sweetest word in the English language: "No."

"No?" he repeats, wanting to watch her lips again form the single syllable.

She smiles softly. "No."

He allows his eyes to close briefly at the overwhelming release. "After that Eddie Bracknell balls-up, I didn't know if you'd ever want –"

"Shh." Her fingers are cool and so smooth against his lips. "Don't, Gerry, not now."

In response he catches her hand in his and presses a kiss to her fingertips. There are other things he wants to tell her about why he kept information from her, but he knows she doesn't want to hear them. Not now, anyway.

Her sweet smile turns devious. "You're just lucky it's Thursday, Don Juan," she says, "and not, say, Friday or Wednesday."

"Lucky me." He doesn't want to let her go, but they can't just stay here outside the toilets. Strickland will already be wondering what's keeping Sandra. "Lucky, lucky me."

"How do you suggest we get rid of Strickland?"

"Go back up there and start talking about your girlfriend."

Those big blue eyes roll toward the ceiling. "Say you're paralytic and ask me for a ride home," she retorts.

"He'd have me in a cab in under sixty seconds."

"Not if I had anything to say about it."

Sandra is giving him that one-sided smirk, and the look in her eyes is devilish but affectionate, and Gerry throws aloft a little prayer of thanksgiving, just in case there's someone up there listening. Yes, he's itching to touch her, and now that he knows he's going to get to the waiting won't be any easier. But it's the laughter and warmth in her eyes that finally eases the knot of tension that has taken up residence somewhere near his small intestine.

"We should go back."

She sounds reluctant, which thrills him. "You first, and I'll follow."

"Right." Sandra doesn't turn away immediately, though. Instead she runs her fingers down his brightly coloured tie and lightly smoothes the still-crisp fabric of his dress shirt where it covers his sternum. She must notice how his breath hitches. It's a soothing gesture, but has totally the opposite effect on him.

He waits for a couple of minutes before heading up to rejoin their little three-handed game. What he sees from the top of the stairs makes his eyebrows leap toward his hairline.

There are already three people at their table: Strickland, Sandra, and Frank Patterson.

For a split second he wants to stomp his feet; then he takes in Strickland's rigid posture and lowering brow, and chortles. If anyone can dislodge the D.A.C. from Sandra, it's Patterson, who is certainly not Strickland's favourite person.

"Oh, hello, Frank," Gerry greets him magnanimously. Strickland is just rising. "You going so soon, sir?" From the corner of his eye Gerry sees Sandra shoot him a warning look, but he also sees the grin she's fighting to hide.

"Ah, yes, I really must be off home. Early morning tomorrow." He directs his body toward the superintendent, doing his best to exclude the two other men. "May I offer you a ride home, Sandra? It's not out of my way."

The grin has been suppressed to be replaced by a guileless smile. "Oh, thank you, sir, but I have my car, and I'm well under the limit."

_Take that, Strickers_, Gerry thinks, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. _I may be older, a bit fatter, hell, shorter than you, mate, but she's chosen me, and you don't even realize it._

The D.A.C. now has no choice but to retreat, which he does by clearing his throat and announcing that he'll see the two of them in the morning, just as if this was exactly what he'd planned all along. "Thanks again for the meal, sir," Gerry calls after him very politely before turning to Patterson and flashing him a toothy smile. "Buy you a drink, mate?"

"No, no, this one's my shout. Can I get you another? Sandra?"

They shake their heads.

With Strickland gone, Gerry edges slightly closer to the gov, and she pretends not to notice, but when his angled knee brushes against the outside of her leg, she presses back lightly and looks directly into his eyes. The message is clear: _Get rid of Frank_.

There's the rub. Frank unwittingly ousted Strickland, but the former detective is the human barnacle of all time, as Gerry knows only too well. Generally he doesn't mind a few hours in the other man's presence, but when there's a warm, sexy, willing woman giving Gerry an impatient look, there's no contest.

And this isn't just any woman. It's _Sandra_, Gerry's fantasy miraculously made reality.

Suddenly Gerry decides that four weeks is his absolute limit. He can't wait another hour; hell, he can't wait ten minutes. This is agony. Frank or no Frank, he has to touch her, has to kiss her. He has a crazed memory of listening to a villain rattling on about Maslow's hierarchy of needs, and knows he needs Sandra as much as he needs air to breathe. He has to get her alone, or he'll have no choice but to haul her into his lap and stick his tongue down her throat in the middle of their local – and then she'll murder him, which will be advantageous to neither party.

Frank reaches for his crumpled pack of fags; consternation spreads across his face as he realizes he's smoked the last one. "Oi, Gerry, give us a fag, would you?"

"Sorry, mate, I'm all out. You could nip round the corner." Gerry can predict the behavior of a nicotine addict, and as Frank stands, he holds out a tenner. "Marlboro," he reminds the other man, despite the fact that the pack shoved deep in his jacket pocket is currently almost full.

Before Frank is fully out the door, Sandra has disappeared down the stairs again, and Gerry follows, thinking, _That's my girl_. The knowledge that she's as impatient as he is does nothing to quell his enthusiasm.

She is standing in the deep shadows at the far end of the short corridor, hip braced on the open door of the disused call box, expectant. They share a wide grin before Gerry moves, and then they are tangled in one another's arms like a couple of adolescents and the door is banging shut behind him, secluding them in the murky world of the call box.

Her open mouth is warm and eager, challenging as always as she surges against him, and Gerry lets his hands roam over her back and her hips. The weight of his body is pressing her against the wood and glass panes at her back, determined to get as close to her as possible, and still Sandra is tugging at him, pulling him painfully close, determined not to be outdone. His hands shake as he relearns the contours of her body through the barriers of her clothing, and when she tears her mouth away from his and sinks her teeth sharply into the tendon at the side of his neck, he's a goner. His eyes fly open as her tongue laps at his skin, soothing away the sting.

And that's when he sees it, or thinks he does. His vision swims, distorted by the grimy glass, and he blinks rapidly. When he opens his eyes again the corridor as he sees it over Sandra's shoulder is reassuringly empty.

Right, then; it was just his fevered imagination playing horrible tricks on him. Frank Patterson may look a bit like a deranged elf, but Gerry's quite sure he has no magical powers of appearing and vanishing. He releases a pent-up breath.

That decides it: he hasn't seen Frank in the hallway, peering lewdly at Sandra and himself.

Now that Gerry has gone still, Sandra steps back, instinctively bringing her fingers up to press against her tingling lips. She is flushed, slightly sheepish, and attempting to cover it with irritation. "What?" she snaps, smoothing her hair as best she can.

Gerry reaches out and tucks a strand behind her ear. "Time to go home," he says simply. "You go, and I'll be right behind you." He presses a quick kiss to her parted lips.

Her eyes narrow. "I'll give you ten minutes," she warns, and he obediently replies, "Yes, gov."

Patterson is lounging against the bar, attempting to chat up the very uninterested bar maid, who's heard it all before, when Gerry joins him. "Where's Sandra?" Gerry asks, as if he'd expected to find her at the table. "She didn't just piss off without so much as a by-your-leave, did she?"

"Oh, no, Gerald, the lovely Detective Superintendent Pullman wouldn't do that, would she?" Frank's tone is suggestive; but then, Frank's tone is always suggestive. Gerry is paranoid and being hyper-sensitive. "Speak of the devil."

She has popped up at the top of the stairs and is making a beeline for them. Her mobile catches the light from its position tucked into her palm. "Had to make a call," she says breezily, and Gerry's glad he has nearly forty years of being a copper behind him to help him keep a straight face. "And now I'm off home. Night, boys."

Exactly eight minutes later Gerry makes a move as well. Frank doesn't protest – he still hasn't given up on the bar maid – but says, "Time for good little working boys to be tucked up in bed, ay?"

Gerry leaves him laughing merrily at his own joke. Oh, yes – he plans to let Sandra tuck him in and tell him a very nice bedtime story.

He knows better than to ask about breakfast again, but she seems to be in no particular hurry to leave tonight as she stretches languorously and tugs the duvet up and over herself. She shivers, her skin cooling rapidly as her heartbeat slows, and rolls to rest her cheek on her upper arm. She blinks, and then her bright eyes focus on Gerry's. There's something there that makes him want to use every three-syllable adjective he's ever heard in an attempt to tell her how beautiful she is, how incredible, how rare, how he knows he's the luckiest son-of-a-bitch alive. He knows perfectly well that she'd laugh and tease him for having used the same lines a dozen, two dozen times before, and she wouldn't be entirely wrong. So he contents himself with saying her name very softly, very slowly, and is rewarded with a smile.

A few minutes earlier they were both frantic, and now they're more relaxed than they've ever been together. Sandra seems comfortable in his bed; content. If Gerry can make her smile like she's doing now just one day a week for the rest of his life, he reflects, it will be by far the most successful relationship he's ever had, as well as the most unconventional.

Well, Sandra Pullman is not conventional.

He says her name again, and she props herself up on her elbow and leans down to kiss him very, very softly, her lips whisper-light on his. Tenderness, he thinks: that's what this is.

"Oh, Sandra." His calloused fingers trail lightly over her arm, her hair, and finally her face, stroking along her jaw, her brow, the straight line of her nose.

"Gerry, this is – We have to be careful." His fingers move gently down her neck to slide along her collarbone, and she lets her eyes drift closed. "I don't want to lose this."

Coming from her, the simple admission floors Gerry, and then buoys him up, up, up. This is the confirmation he didn't even know he wanted that what they're doing isn't just the convenient fulfillment of a basic need, no different from eating microwavable meals or buying cheap plonk because it's right beside the checkout at the Tesco Express. It isn't like mediocre take-away coffee or most of the stops on the Circle line.

"We're being careful. I'll be more careful, less of an idiot –"

She chuckles. "You won't, Gerry."

"Old habits die hard?" he suggests, toying with the edge of the duvet, teasingly trying to pull it away from her.

"I don't expect you to be any different." As if to prove her point, she lets him have his way, and the cover slips from her armpit to the bottom of her rib cage. "I like you." She smiles slightly as his eyes move slowly over her in the light that filters in from the street. Typical Gerry, that smile said.

He reaches out, his palm smoothing down her exposed side, and she says simply, "Be honest with me. That's all I want."

His hand stills, then finds hers under the covers and squeezes. "I promise you," he says.

He has probably broken as many promises as he has kept, but his word is still good enough for her. "You're a good man," Sandra whispers, and when she says the words, he believes them.

_*Chapter title unashamedly ripped off from a very old episode of _Inspector Morse_._


	7. Eat, Drink, and Be Wary

_Just a short one this time. Hope you enjoy._

**Chapter Seven: Eat, Drink, and Be Wary**

1.

Gerry and Brian are mired in traffic on the Surrey side of the Thames. As they creep along Gerry sighs heavily. Having to interview an inmate at Wandsworth is a necessary evil; being snarled in an endless traffic jam at 3:00 on a Thursday afternoon is bollocks.

"This," Brian comments helpfully, insufferably superior, "is why I choose not to drive."

"The next time it's pissing down, you can walk home," the other man retorts.

Meanwhile Sandra peers anxiously up at the sky as she and Jack cross Edgeware Road. "Do you think it looks like rain?"

He doesn't bother looking skyward, but shoots her a dubious glance. "We live in England, Sandra. When does it not look like rain?"

"I think it might be clearing. There, see?"

He doesn't. "Why the sudden interest in the weather? You planning on a nature hike after work?"

"Right, that's just my style: a nice little ten-mile stroll through the forest." She chuckles. "I'll take Gerry and make it a real party."

It's reasonably warm for late February, and so far, at least, the bone-chilling dampness has held off. Sandra has high hopes. She _is_ planning a little stroll, but not through the forest, and she _is_ planning to take Gerry along. In fact, the sooner she and Jack talk to Jerome Spruell, the sooner she can make a start. Unconsciously she increases both her pace and the length of her stride, and then looks back impatiently at her colleague.

"What are you waiting for, Jack – spring? Come on."

It's gone half four when Gerry and Brian finally make it back to the office, and Detective Superintendent Pullman is chafing with exasperation and driving Jack crazy.

"Someone needs to check Robinson's diplomatic status," she says, and Jack leaps to his feet with the alacrity of a man half his age.

"We might be able to make it over to the American Embassy if we step on it," says Jack, who, of course, knows any such thing is sheer madness, but who's sick of being cooped up with Sandra. She keeps looking out the window and pacing a four-foot rectangle in front of her desk. "Come on, Brian." _Sorry, Gerry, but you're more resilient._

Sandra instantly spins on her boot heel. "Right. With me, Gerry."

"Aw, c'mon, gov, it's nearly gone five," he protests, even though they're already headed briskly for the main exit. "Can't we skive off a few minutes early? It's Thursday," he sing-songs, and she glares at him, but he can see that she's not the least bit angry.

It occurs to him to wonder just where they're going as she hits the pavement, moving as if the hounds of hell are in hot pursuit. "Er, don't we need some form of transport?"

"We have one. We're taking the tube." Ignoring Gerry's dumbstruck expression, she actually claps her hands twice, like a prim head teacher. "Come on. You should be able to move faster now you've lost some weight."

Once they're underground she calms, and she seems perfectly content on the crowded train, even though she and Gerry are squashed together like a couple of tinned sardines. Well actually, he thinks as she shifts her weight with the motion of the train and her back presses against him, that aspect of the situation is rather an advantage. But still –

"Sandra, whatever it is we're doing, does it have to be done on Thursday night?" he asks impatiently.

"Yes." She twists her upper body so he can see her face as she grins. "In fact, it's the only night we can do this."

Realization dawns. "We're not on the clock."

"I don't think you can put in for overtime, no, unless you fancy explaining to Strickland exactly how this falls into the category of 'extraordinary duty.'"

"I could do that." Gerry smiles smugly as the train lurches slightly, and he drops his hand to Sandra's waist to help her balance atop her high-heeled boots. "In great detail."

She grins, which takes a good bit of the power from her reproving look. "You're talking a load of bullshit, Gerald. You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, wouldn't I?"

They're speaking very softly to keep from being overheard, and his warm breath tickles her ear as he teases her, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. "No," she replies with certainty, strategically pressing backward a bit more firmly, "not if you know what's good for you."

Eventually they emerge, and Sandra grabs Gerry's hand, leading him through what seems like a warren of extremely crowded streets. Geographically they're not all that far from the area where he grew up, but culturally they're light years away.

"Where are we going?" he questions, squeezing her hand just because he can. Her bright red glove looks even redder enfolded in his black one.

"Dinner," she replies simply, glancing over to flash him that delighted, devious smile he can't resist. "What did you have for lunch?"

"Warm duck breast salad with gorgonzola, apple, and sesame seeds. You?"

"Half a cheese sandwiches, packet of crisps from the vending machine, and an under-ripe banana."

"You just don't eat properly when I'm not around, do you?"

"Right, Gerry, it's all down to you. It's astonishing that I've survived this long."

"I want to cook for you." They're still walking along, and he uses their joined hands to tug Sandra closer.

"You've cooked for me heaps of times."

"For you only. Something special."

She hesitates. "We'll see. Come on, we're almost there."

They've already passed restaurants representing virtually every country and region on the map of Asia, and Gerry admits to himself that he's eager to see where Sandra is taking him. He'd once told Sandra she didn't know anything about food, and she'd retorted that she didn't know anything about _his_ kind of food. They've both learned a lot from each other between that day and this, in more ways than one.

As if reading his mind, she squeezes his fingers, and they share a smile.

"Here we are," she says cheerfully, stopping abruptly on the corner.

Gerry blinks and considers her Sphinx-like expression. She's taking the piss. "All right, funny, gov."

She slips her arm through his. "The lamb's nice," she confides, "and the beef is brilliant."

Maybe they haven't learned so much from each other after all, because he has a sinking feeling that his companion is quite serious. He stares at the small stand in front of them for a full minute, and when he finally speaks, his tone is incredulous.

"Sandra, you've dragged me halfway across the city to eat _street meat_?"

2.

"I know it's just here somewhere," Marjorie says confidently to her friend as the two older women wend their way steadily eastward. "They have the most fantastic orange pekoe, and the little pistachio biscuits!" She throws both hands open, indicating something like rapture, in the religious sense. "And in the same block there's a wonderful spice shop. I can't imagine what you're meant to do with some of the things they sell."

The retired teacher chatters on, but Esther Lane's attention has been caught by someone up ahead of her, someone with shining blonde hair beneath a black tam-like wool hat that matches her black military-style jacket set off by a vividly blue scarf. Is that Sandra?

Whoever the blonde woman is, she's not alone. Her arm is linked through that of a man in a long grey coat. They're close to the same height; she's a bit taller in her chunky black boots. Sandra, certainly. Sandra and… Gerry?

Gerry Standing?

Esther gives herself a mental shake. Why in the world shouldn't her husband's friends be standing there together, apparently debating the virtues of lamb versus beef doner kebaps? They all ate plenty of meals together, Esther knew that well enough, and they were all very close friends, even if those friendships were sometimes a bit… unusual.

It must be the way they're standing that strikes her as so arresting, the way their arms are cozily linked.

_If that were Jack and Sandra, you wouldn't think twice. Brian and Sandra, ditto._

Well, that's true enough. But it isn't Jack or Brian; it's Gerry.

Before Esther can make up her mind, she and Marjorie have reached their destination, and Esther's friend is dragging her bodily into the small tea shop.

3.

"This is the first course," Sandra explains as if it's the most logical, self-evident information in the world. "So do you want your own, or do you want to share?"

Gerry spreads his hands and steps back. "This is your rodeo."

"Have it your way." She rattles off an order for one beef doner kebap with lettuce, tomato, and about three different types of sauces. "Extra spicy," she enthuses, unthinkingly rising up on her toes to watch the young Middle Eastern man prepare the wrap.

Gerry would eat pickled cow udders and donkey intestines if it would put that look on her face, that smiling, wide-eyed expression of little-girl enthusiasm. She has such force, such energy. Perhaps not many people are allowed in close enough to see this, but Sandra Pullman, workaholic extraordinaire, has an enormous appetite for life. Gerry has seen glimmers of it for years, in that occasional radiant smile and in the great joy she takes in small things: a lovely breakfast, a nice glass of wine, a really good joke at his expense. But that doesn't compare to seeing her like this. He realizes he's smiling hugely, because she's so happy, because he's happy; and as she turns back to face him, carefully holding the prize kebap, Gerry feels like a sappy, sentimental old fool, because he wishes he could capture this moment and keep it.

She is staring at him, he realizes, impatient but amused, holding out the foil-wrapped concoction. "It's food, Gerry," she says smartly, "not an art project. It's meant to be eaten."

He merely raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, play along, you tosser. At the worst how bad can it be? I've seen you eat things that have literally made you go green. To a man of your wrecked constitution this should be mother's milk."

"Wrecked, is it?"

The spice creeps up slowly, initially masked by the moist, succulent meat, the crisp salad, and the cool yoghurt-based sauce. After a few bites, though, Gerry is actually sweating.

"Too hot for poor old Gerry?" Sandra taunts.

"Nothing you've got is too hot for me," he returns, and she rolls her eyes and groans.

"Christ, Gerry, you're a relic." She steals the sandwich and takes a large bite. "Hmm," she sighs.

"Sandra," he asks suddenly, watching the blissful expression on her face, "what did you eat growing up?"

She wrinkles her nose, but chews and swallows before answering. "The same things the rest of the country was eating in the sixties and seventies, I suppose. There was a great deal of boiling and mashing involved."

"Was your mum a good cook? Or your dad?" he adds hastily.

Taking another bite, she shakes her head. "My mother taught me everything I know, if you take my point. She hated the idea even more than I do – because she had to do it, of course." She takes one more bite for good measure and passes over the kebap as if she's handing over the Olympic torch. "My father once burned condensed soup. So there you have them, my culinary role models."

He nods sagely. "It makes sense now."

"What does?" He looks dubiously at the dripping, soupy mess still cradled in the aluminium foil, and she forestalls his response. "If you toss that in the rubbish bin, you're a dead old copper. That's the best part, and I've saved it for you."

Gerry dutifully peels the wrapper back and ingests the last two bites as quickly as possible. Sandra's right to say that this is the "best" part if by best she means the most tastebud-scorching, sopping as it is in the hot sauce. The fact that rivulets of greasy liquid are running down his gloved fingers somewhat dampens Gerry's enthusiasm. Sandra hands him a napkin and repeats, "What makes sense?"

"Your aversion to our national cuisine."

She sniffs. "I happen to _love_ curry."

Sandra leads on, intent on providing him with a real street food experience, one that involves neither jellied eels nor candy floss. She has begun fairly traditionally with the kebap, but for the next forty-five minutes they wind through a collection of stalls purveying delicately spiced roti rolls, miniature banh mi, tacos made with Korean barbecue and tangy kim chi, and light, airy fried dumplings stuffed with duck, winter squash, and some sort of exotic peppercorns that make Gerry's tongue go numb for a full ten minutes.

"Sandra, you couldn't have waited for warmer weather for this little excursion?" Gerry stamps his feet and watches his breath create streams of white steam.

"Quit whinging, you overgrown jessie. Didn't you have to walk uphill eight miles through the snow to get to school when you were a mere lad, or somefing?" she taunts. "During the Great War?"

"All right, all right. Vicious, Sandra."

She's unfazed by his complaining. "You've behaved reasonably well, I suppose. Be a big, brave boy a few minutes longer and we'll get you warmed up."

"I'm counting on it."

She rolls her eyes. "_Come_ on."

They walk briskly not back to the underground but to a narrow, two-storeyed tea shop tucked behind a nondescript grey metal door. The elderly Chinese woman at the till greets Sandra by name, and Sandra orders orange pekoe for herself and Gerry and an array of tiny, spicy biscuits rich with the flavours of cinnamon, almond, pistachio, even saffron and basil.

"You must at least like these," she says, nudging one of the miniature biscuits toward Gerry once the two of them are installed at a rickety table by the window. "Even if you didn't like anything else."

"It wasn't all completely horrible." He sips cautiously at the scalding liquid as feeling gradually returns to his stiff fingers, and reaches out to lay his thawing digits on her forearm where it's covered by the soft, delicate cashmere of her vivid turquoise jumper.

"Oh, fabulous. It's been a raging success, then," she grumbles, looking unimpressed as she hunches over her own steaming cup. "Your spirit of adventure, Gerry: that's what I find so refreshing about you."

"Don't make me say it. It's too humiliating."

Her even white teeth meet in one of the leaf-shaped sweets. "What's that?"

"I'll eat whatever you want," he admits grumpily.

She smirks. "Don't expect me to return the sentiment. I tried tripe once for you; I seldom make the same mistake twice. Well, except this one I keep making on a weekly basis with you." As she speaks, though, she covers his hand where it rests on her arm and strokes lightly over his knuckles. They share a smile.

And that's exactly the expression Esther glimpses on Sandra's face as she and Marjorie walk by, both laden with bags of newly purchased spices. Marjorie is thinking out loud, dreaming up some dish that will feature sumac, and Esther's distracted glance lands on Brian's governor and freeze-frames her like a still photo.

Esther and her friend have moved on and are waiting at the zebra crossing before Esther has time to process what she's seen, or at least what she thinks she's seen.

Well. How very interesting.

You don't have to be a detective to know what that smile meant, Esther muses. You just have to be able to see.

How very, very interesting indeed.


	8. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? I

_Note: I'm picking up the pace with posting because I want to get this all up before I leave for some extended travelling starting next weekend, so apologies for the potential deluge. Also, beware: extreme silliness herein. I'm definitely pushing the envelope of probability here – and perhaps also the envelope of the T rating (although I don't think so, but perhaps my mind is a foul cesspool and I just haven't realised it yet). Please don't tattle on me to the fanfic police. This is all in fun. Hope you enjoy._

**Chapter Nine: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Part One**

1.

Gerry is actually whistling jauntily as he pours freshly-brewed coffee into a mug and slaps the newspaper down on the kitchen counter. He lights a cigarette, one of the minimum two it takes him to get on his feet every morning, and glances down at the date on the paper. As he does, he kicks the volume of his whistling up a notch. Not only is it Friday, his second-favourite morning of the week (because his memories of Thursday night are freshest), but it's also the day before his birthday.

His sixty-first birthday, to be precise.

Gerry hasn't been this chuffed about getting another year older in maybe forty years; but all indicators so far are that sixty-one is going to be a much better year than sixty. He has his job, his lovely family, including a son-in-law who doesn't seem to be a complete plank, great friends, and a certain very sexy, brilliant blonde who excels at keeping his bed warm. Granted, since this happens exactly once a week, said bed tends to become a tad chilly between days one and seven. Still and all, Gerry's feeling pretty damned content. Absolutely cockahoo, in fact.

He fully expects a proper birthday do after work this evening. He'll drink a little too much and attempt to wheedle Sandra into driving him home – and staying. She hadn't said anything about his birthday last night, but yesterday she'd teased him about being almost ready for that buss pass, so she hasn't forgotten. A gift of a _personal_ nature would be just the thing. Age, where is thy sting?

_That's "death," Gerald, not age_, he reminds himself, and then thinks, _Well, that too_.

Even the fact that his lower back is giving him gip as he slides behind the wheel of the Stag can't dampen his good mood, because he knows exactly why his muscles are sore, and it's not because he's been moving furniture.

He hasn't persuaded Sandra to let him cook for her yet, but they had lovely Thai last night, and thick, juicy, rare steaks the week before at his instigation. As he drives toward the office, he thinks about what he'll prepare for her eventually when he's worn her defences down. She loves duck – or tuna. He could do a really fresh seared tuna, and pair it with something unexpected. She loves pasta, too, but he wants to do something special, something just right for a gorgeous, tough, uncompromising, warm, joyful bitch of an Ice Queen. It's a tall order.

The girls and their boys are coming Sunday for their weekly dinner, which will be a celebration in honour of Gerry's birthday, although he draws the line at baking himself a cake.

Since Saturday is his actual birthday, maybe he can get Sandra to break her Thursdays-only rule. He could make her that tuna – with wasabi mashed potatoes, maybe? He's watched her eat sushi; she turns it into a vehicle to douse with the pungent green paste and envelope in shaved ginger. Hmm, ginger…

Possibly he's obsessing just a tad, but she wouldn't want him to be all alone and pathetic on his birthday of all days, would she? He might be driven to desperation. He might have to lose a really large sum at the track.

_Gerry, you're a manipulative bastard – and besides, this is Sandra Pullman. Ethics aside, it wouldn't bleedin' _work.

Gerry chooses a family-style red-sauce Italian when they have him pick the restaurant for his birthday meal, and they give him his gift before they leave the office. The small box is tastefully wrapped in dark blue paper with a gold ribbon, and inside is a very nice watch, the nicest, indeed, that he has ever owned, to replace the battered one Amelia had brought him from a long-ago trip to Thailand. It's gold, because Gerry _does_ like gold, but is tasteful, with a smooth, contemporary design.

He's genuinely speechless for a moment before he manages to stammer out a thank-you. Jack pumps his hand with one of his rare grins, Brian claps him on the back with surprising force, and Sandra hugs him and, wonder of wonders, kisses his cheek.

At dinner Sandra orders a really nice rosso di Montalcino and then they adjourn to the pub and all buy him pints, and Gerry does have a bit too much, and Sandra does offer to drive him home. She won't come in, but she does bend her iron-clad rule a little, and leans across the gear shift to let Gerry give her a lingering kiss good-night.

All in all, this has been the best birthday he's had in a very long while – and it's not even his birthday yet.

2.

When Gerry's number pops up on Sandra's mobile at 10:30 Saturday morning, she greets him, "Many happy returns."

Her voice is low and rough with sleep, and he asks, "Did I wake you?"

"No." I rustle. "I'm just being lazy." She's still in bed. He allows himself to think about that until she says, "Gerry, was there something?"

Right. It's not as if they ring one another up to chat, is it? And what would they talk about if they did? He imagines it going something like this:

Sandra: Gerry, how was your day?

Gerry: The usual. Made some called, interviewed some witnesses, leered at some women, pissed my governor off good and proper. Yours?

Sandra: Shouted at three PCs before breakfast, refused what might have been an advance from my superior, rode herd on my team, and plotted to murder Gerry.

[Awkward pause.]

"Gerry?" the actual Sandra is saying impatiently. "Are you there?"

"Yeah, yeah. So it's my proper birthday, innit?"

"Innit," she echoes mockingly, which he takes for agreement with his lamentably obvious statement.

"Come round for dinner."

"It's Saturday."

"What, you don't eat on Saturdays?"

There's a very brief pause before she says, "You know the rules. Besides, I have plans."

He doesn't realize how much he was hoping she'd agree, even counting on her presence, until his shoulders sink instantly at her words. She has _plans_. What kind of plans? With whom? Doesn't she basically spend all her time with Jack and Brian and him?

As per their agreement, she's free to do whatever – or whomever – she pleases six days a week, and so is he, but that doesn't mean he has to be thrilled at the idea.

It'd bleedin' better not be Strickland. Gerry had broken a DAC's jaw once before, he could do it again.

_Yeah, Sandra would _really_ appreciate that. Get a grip, Standing_.

"Do you really have plans?"

It's hardly the smoothest thing he could've said, and she's obviously irritated when she replies, "No, Gerry, I have fictitious plans with my imaginary friends. – Yes, I have plans. Was there something else?"

He tells her he'll see her Monday, trying to sound cool, and rings off. Maybe he will be reduced to losing a few ponies on the horses, after all.

3.

When Emily Driscoll's mobile goes at half eleven, she's been to the gym – she loathes going to the gym – and is walking back to her flat. Her coat is tucked under her arm and she's enjoying the brush of the March wind as it dries her sweaty skin. "Hullo," she brightly greets her sister.

"Hiya, Ems. You're not on duty today, are you?"

"Nope, I've got a proper weekend for a change."

"Fantastic. I've been thinking, you know, that it's hardly a celebration to let Dad cook his own birthday dinner, is it? Jayne always brings a cake, but still. We could take him out for a meal, but then I got thinking how he wouldn't let us have a proper do for his sixtieth." Indeed. This time last year Gerry had been moaning despairingly about having one foot in the grave; he certainly hadn't wanted a party. "But don't you think he seems a lot more relaxed about this birthday?"

"What, you want to throw a party?"

"Not a party, exactly. I thought I could round up all the girls and go round to Dad's tonight instead of tomorrow night, and we can take the food and drink and everything. I wanted to check with you first, though; it wouldn't be right if you weren't there."

Emily smiles despite herself. Paula is so thoughtful, so considerate of Emily's unusual position in the family and protective of her feelings. "That sounds lovely, yeah."

"And we should have his mates from work, yeah? Jack and Brian and his wife, Esther, and Sandra, of course." Paula remembers details like names of spouses and children, anniversaries, birthdays, favourite colours. She is compassionate and efficient, characteristics that make her a great nurse. "Do you want to ring them, or should I?"

"I have Sandra's number, and I can get the others easily enough, so I'll do it. What time should I tell them?"

"Say half seven? Cheers, Em. Dad will love it. He's like a kid, you know, loves surprises."

4.

Gerry is sitting in his favourite chair watching a ridiculously operatic spaghetti western when Amelia phones at 2:30.

"Happy birthday," she says cheerfully. "What have you got planned, then?"

"I'm communing with the more spiritual side of my nature."

"Watching telly and having a few beers, are you?" she replies instantly, and Gerry looks from the remote control in perched on the chair arm to the Newcastle in his left fist. "You're not at the track, are you, or getting up to something dodgy at your bookie's?"

Christ, is he that predictable? He has already decided against pissing his money away, though, even if he doesn't have anything better to do. He sort of likes being able to boast that he's a reformed character; and besides, he doesn't have a cash flow problem for the first time in yonks.

"I don't have a bookie, princess. He got himself banged up, didn't he? Anyway, don't worry about your old man."

"I'm not worried. I have to go to the library for a bit, but I thought if you're not busy later I could pop round and take you for a birthday drink. Say half seven or so?"

"That'd be lovely, sweetheart, cheers. I'm not going anywhere, so just give me a bell."

Gerry rings off and returns his gaze to the television screen, where a young Clint Eastwood is kicking arse and taking names in perfect time with Ennio Moricone's famous score. Gerry hums along and mentally tells Clint that he's having a perfectly lovely birthday, thank you. What does it matter what Sandra's getting up to, when he has a delightful evening with one of his girls to look forward to?

5.

Mission accomplished, reads Amelia's text to her three sisters. Dad staying in.

Caitlin's answering text is vintage youngest Standing daughter: Can we have a choc cake? Dad likes chocolate best.

This may or may not be true, but it's certainly Caitlin's favourite.

6.

"No," Jayne says impatiently to Alison, "of course I'm not bringing John. It's a party, for Christ's sake."

"No, luv, just for Gerry's," the second Mrs. Standing replies blithely. "Until tonight, then."

7.

"Jack?" Jack instantly recognizes the number, the voice, and the mumbling of his name through a mouthful of Malteasers. "'s Brian. You going round to Gerry's tonight?"

"Yes, his Emily phoned me." Jack momentarily rests his weight on his golf club and squints at the ball, envisioning its trajectory.

Esther squawks in the background. Jack makes out the words "your bloody dog."

"Uh, got to go," Brian says abruptly, and hangs up.

8.

When Emily hasn't been able to raise Sandra by 5:30, she leaves her a voicemail: "Sandra, it's Emily. Paula had the idea of us all going round to Dad's tonight to surprise him. We're meeting at 7:30 in front of the building so we can spring upon him unawares. I've already spoken to Brian and Jack, and they're coming. It would be great if you could make it. Don't bring anything; that's sorted. Cheers. Bye."

9.

As soon as she steps inside her flat, Sandra frees her freshly manicured toes from her shoes, tosses her handbag onto the table, and pats her coat pockets down once more, although she knows full well that her mobile isn't there. Where is it hiding? Her gaze sweeps over the living room. No mobile. Maybe it's in the car, she thinks, glancing at her watch. It's quarter to six, so she doesn't have time to look for it now, not if she wants to get there by seven or 7:15. She shrugs out of her coat and walks briskly down the hall to the bathroom. As she twists the hot water tap open in the shower, she thinks, Well, at least this way Strickland won't be able to reach me about a new case.

Meanwhile, her mobile waits patiently where she dropped it this morning, out of sight beneath her rumpled duvet, its battery slowly going flat.

10.

It has been a fairly pleasant day for March, but the air feels frigid now that the sun has set and the wind has kicked up. Sandra shivers as she slides behind the wheel of the convertible, and pulls her red wool coat more snugly against her body. She is not dressed appropriately for the weather.

She smiles to herself, feeling a flutter of anticipation as she drives through the familiar streets. (Argh, traffic. No matter; she'll still be there by a quarter after.) She's the tiniest bit nervous, and can't quite believe she's doing this. She had friends who'd done it at university, but Sandra hadn't. There were a lot of things she hadn't done at university, but she had earned a double first.

She has to park nearly two blocks away, and she teeters a little on her spiked heels as she locks the car doors. She glances at the duffel bag on the passenger seat. She'll come back and get it later; arriving with it in hand would rather spoil the effect.

Within a few steps she has settled into the exaggerated gait necessitated by the extremely high heels. _Everyone needs to break the rules once in a while_, she thinks, smiling secretively to herself. _This is going to be_ fun.

11.

When his door buzzer peals, Gerry fully expects it to be Amelia, although she said she'd ring first. He opens the door without checking and finds himself facing Sandra – not quite eye to eye, because she's a few inches taller than he is tonight. He automatically looks down at her shoes. They're black patent leather, with evil heels and straps that wind above her ankles, and are very expensive, if he knows anything about women's footwear (which he does). Her legs are encased in sheer black stockings, but he can't see what else she's wearing because she's bundled up tightly in her bright coat. Her hair is curled slightly, making his fingers itch to twine themselves in it, and he's never seen her makeup like this, the smoky eye shadow and thick dark liner bringing out the vivid blue of her eyes.

"Hi," she says, smiling, those eyes twinkling. Gerry realizes he's been surveying her for a long, silent moment. "Can I come in?"

He practically leaps aside into the flat, and as he closes the door behind her, he gets a good look at Sandra from the back and his heart stutters before resuming a regular rhythm, now considerably faster than it was before his doorbell rang. Those sheer black stockings have thick seams, perfectly straight, that run up the backs of her smooth, muscular legs, just like the ones worn by the models in the 1950s pin-ups young Gerry had pilfered from his older cousins to lust over in the secrecy of his small bedroom.

Oh, Christ suffering on the cross, she's going _out_ with someone dressed like that. His chest tightens with jealousy and envy, while another part of his anatomy tightens with something else entirely.

He has to touch her: shoulders, that should be safe enough. "Can I take your coat?"

She steps away without answering and turns to face him. "I just dropped by to give you your birthday gift," she says in that clear, ringing alto. Her voice does things to him, things he wouldn't discuss in polite company, if he knew any polite company.

_Right_, he thinks. _Okay, Gerald, you can handle this. You're sixty-one bloody years old, and Sandra is not the Blessed Virgin. That is, in fact, one of your favourite things about her. So she's on her way to let some other bloke shag her rotten. Take the gift, enjoy the view, kiss her on the cheek, and ask her to wear those stockings Thursday night. Don't act like a jealous old fool_.

"But you already gave me a gift," he says, trying not to stare too obviously and aware that he's failing miserably. At least his tongue isn't hanging out.

_Not Strickland_, he thinks_. Please, please, please not that prat. But not a stranger, either. Oh, Sandra, no dodgy stranger deserves you, especially not when you look like that._

"But this one is just from me," she says with the little smirk that makes his toes curl. She slowly reaches for the belt of her coat and begins to unbuckle it. After she has worked the clasp, her fingers reach up to the top button and tug it smoothly from the button hole, her eyes fastened on his. When she has unbuttoned all the buttons, she stands still, arms at her sides, and he still can't see what she's got on under the coat. "Would you like to unwrap it now, Gerry?"

He nods, trying very hard not to make an ass of himself. Gerry knows his arousal is blatantly obvious, and she's toying with him. He'd be angry if he weren't so turned on.

In a single, fluid motion she slides the coat from her shoulders and it falls to pool at her feet.

Gerry would weep if it weren't a touch too theatrical.

All Sandra has on is a concoction of black satin and lace, the style of vintage corset that covers her almost like a swimsuit but pushes her breasts up and out in defiance of gravity. The stockings stop high on her thighs, where they're decorated with little black bows and held by, God, garter belts.

He stares so avidly that she eventually starts to blush. "Do you know what your present is?" she asks a little breathlessly. "An exception. Happy birthday."

She doesn't get a chance to say anything else because his mouth stops hers, devouring her as if he's starving. One hand tangles in her hair, tugging, mussing the layers, while the other glides down her back to stroke the exposed, baby-soft skin above her stockings. The silky material of the corset sensuously against his button-down shirt, and he wants to feel it against his skin.

The scent of her perfume is strongest behind her delicate ears and between her breasts. It is warm and spicy and perfect for Sandra. Her skin tastes of clean, warm woman and the hint of soap, and he can't get enough, but he wants to go slowly, to savour this. He pulls back enough to look into her face, one of his arms still clasped around her hips, breathing as if he's just run the hundred-yard dash – and won. Her eyes remain closed for several seconds, and when they open, their blue depths are soft and the opposite of icy. She is adorably, gorgeously flushed, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she breathes. He drinks all these details in, and he's sure she'd call it macho pride or chauvinism, but he feels triumphant satisfaction as he thinks, I_ did that. I put that expression on her face. And she's dressed like this for me, not for anyone else. For tonight, at least, she's _mine.

He's hers whenever she wants him, but he figures that's fairly obvious.

Gerry trails a fingertip across the tops of her breasts where her skin meets the lace edging. "Come upstairs," he says, releasing her hips to take her hand.

She does, their hands still joined, moving one step ahead of him and giving him another opportunity to enjoy the view from the back. Those stockings are sexy as hell, but it's what's in them that's phenomenal.

Gerry has just sat on the edge of his neatly made bed and drawn Sandra to stand in front of him when there's an unmistakable sound from below.

The doorbell is ringing.

12.

Esther let Brian out in front of Gerry's flat, where a collection of assorted ex-wives and daughters was already assembled, when she realised she was going to have to drive around until she found a place to park. He'd taken yet another tumble from his bicycle a few days ago, and his knee is playing up. As she walks the two blocks back to join him, her gaze falls upon a familiar blue convertible, but when she reaches the knot of Gerry's friends and family, Sandra isn't among them.

"Are we all here?" Paula asks.

"Where's Sandra?" This from Brian.

Emily shrugs. "I was never able to reach her, so I left a message earlier, and I've just sent a text. Maybe she'll pop by later."

Young Gerry presses the buzzer, and they wait expectantly.

13.

"Maybe whoever it is will go away," Sandra says hopefully.

"Oh, shit!" Gerry gets to his feet. "That'll be Amelia. She wanted to come by and take me for a drink."

Her eyebrows shoot upward. "And you just forgot?"

He grins as he rests his hands on her shoulders. "Oi, I got distracted," he retorts. "I'll make an excuse and reschedule. Just stay here."

"Oh, I thought I'd go to the door!" Sandra hisses after him in a stage-whisper, and he makes no effort to stop grinning as he opens his front door.

And finds his entire family, two of his three closest friends (he knows where the third is), and a bunch of multi-coloured balloons.

"Happy birthday, Grandpa!" Gerry Junior exclaims. "Are you surprised?"

Gerry forces himself to keep smiling as he looks from one familiar face to another. Oh, _bollocks_.

"Oh, yeah," he says rather faintly. "Grandpa is _very_ surprised."

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? II

**Chapter Ten: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Part Two**

1.

Hovering just inside the bedroom door, her hand on the knob, Sandra easily hears Gerry's rather loud, panicked "Come in, everybody," and closes the door instantly and soundlessly. The lock makes only the faintest click as she engages it.

She presses her hot cheek against the cool door, her heart thudding rapidly, and considers her situation. It is, first of all, supremely ridiculous. Second, it's extremely dangerous. She is more than half naked, and the entire Standing clan is downstairs in the lounge. She's also trapped, because although she might be able to sneak downstairs, she has no clothes to put on, and who knows where Gerry might have stashed her coat? – Christ, he can't have left it right there in the floor, can he?

Part of her wants to laugh, but that's the part of her that isn't worried about potentially imminent personal humiliation and professional ruin. While Gerry technically isn't a police officer, so they're not breaking any hard and fast rules, she's still shagging someone who's under her direct command. The enlightened, twenty-first-century Met frowns upon that.

Sandra frowns upon that, in theory.

_Keep calm_, she orders herself sternly, _and all will be well. You trust Gerry – and besides, the door is locked, and the odds that anyone is going to storm his bedroom like it's the Bastille are pretty low. You might as well make yourself comfortable for the duration._

She crosses to the bed, freezing for a moment when a floorboard pops loudly, and stretches out on the duvet. True, she'd planned to spend the evening in Gerry's bed, but she hadn't really anticipated doing so alone.

2.

Downstairs the new arrivals are settling in, putting out the food and pouring drinks. Esther hands Brian a glass of orange juice and settles in next to him. Upstairs a floorboard creaks, and she glances toward the ceiling. Jack and Brian are talking shop, and Esther isn't really listening, but is instead watching everyone mill around, moving from the kitchen to the lounge to the dining area.

"Esther, love," Brian interrupts the leisurely flow of her thoughts, "that folder I brought to show Jack and Gerry and Sandra, if she comes, I've left it in the car. Will you go and fetch it for me?"

"You should be more careful on that bike," Esther scolds, "especially at your age. Besides which, this is a social event, not work. Can't you try to think about something else for a while?"

Her husband casts her a baleful look. "If you'll just get it for me, I'll have done, and I won't talk about work the rest of the evening, I promise."

Esther knows the verbal promise is worth the paper it's written on, but she'd rather get the file than listen to Brian whinge and wheedle, so she gets up with a sigh, pauses to arm herself against the cold, and strides out into the night.

As she returns with the file a few minutes later – it's bulging, so it should keep Brian busy for quite a while – she again passes the blue convertible, and this time she frowns. That has to be Sandra's car; it has the tell-tale tiny parking sticker on the windscreen. So where is the car's owner? She could be visiting someone else in the neighbourhood, but that seems an unlikely coincidence. She isn't at Gerry's, so where is she?

Esther is both curious and mildly concerned, so after she delivers the prized folder to her husband, she circulates through the ground floor of the flat, verifying what she already knows to be true: no Sandra.

Surely she's over-reacting due to four decades of being married to a policeman, but Esther is uneasy. She can't shake the feeling that something is amiss. The streets in the area are quiet and residential; what if someone attacked Sandra between her car and Gerry's flat? She could be hurt or abducted or… worse.

_You're being ridiculous_, Esther chastises herself, pausing at the foot of the stairs to get her mental bearings. The bathroom is at the top of the stairs. On one side, the door to a guest bedroom is open wide, and their coats are piled on the bed. On the other side of the landing is a closed door that must belong to Gerry's bedroom.

Esther recalls the handful of times she's been to Gerry's for meals. That door has always been open. At home Gerry is fastidiously neat, not the type to leave a room in no fit state and hide it by closing a door.

Esther actually gasps.

She's been living with Brian too long; that's what it is. His enormous intuitive leaps have started to seem normal to her, and now her brain is imitating his, which is a frightening prospect in itself.

But she can't help thinking: _Sandra's car is nearby, but no one can find Sandra; Gerry's bedroom door is closed – and probably locked; Gerry seemed a bit uneasy when we all arrived_; and then, finally, there was that _look_ she'd seen on Sandra's face last week, and the way Gerry had been holding her arm.

The lounge is momentarily deserted, and Esther takes advantage of that fact to nip up the stairs as quickly and soundlessly as possible, all the while thinking, _Esther Lane, you're about to make a complete fool of yourself. _She stops outside Gerry's bedroom door and turns the doorknob as cautiously as if she were afraid of detonating a bomb. It doesn't budge, just as she'd expected.

Hah. Brian isn't the only detective in the Lane family. The lock doesn't have a keyhole, which means the door only locks from the inside, and this being Gerry, that means he's got a female visitor in there. Esther would bet her life savings on it.

_It doesn't necessarily follow that the woman is Sandra_, Esther cautions herself. If she mooted the possibility about to Jack and Brian, they'd say it was ludicrous.

But what would Gerry say?

The more Esther considers the possibility, the less surprising it seems. Brian wouldn't see it that way because it would rock his little boat. But there has always been some sort of spark between the detective superintendent and the former sergeant. When she'd first met them, Esther had been not a little surprised by the extremely sharp, even vicious cracks Sandra made at Gerry's expense. She teased Jack and Brian, but never spoke to them with such acid. But Esther had soon noticed other things, too, such as the fact that Sandra accompanied her nastiest quips with a smile that seemed to be reserved especially for the Last Man Standing. And of course Gerry was Gerry, so he flirted with Sandra all the time. It was always a joke, but Esther has thought more than once over the years that Gerry would be delighted if his governor ever took him seriously. He drives Sandra to exasperation much more quickly than eccentric Brian or fatherly Jack – but then, Esther thinks, Brian frequently drives her to the brink of madness, so there may be something to that.

More than anything else, it's a protective instinct that finally persuades Esther to rap very softly on the door and call, in a voice so low it's scarcely audible, "Sandra? Are you all right?" There's no response, but she continues, "You are in there, aren't you, dear? It's Esther."

The response, which is long in coming, is more uncertain than she has ever before heard Sandra Pullman be. "Esther?"

Even the whisper sounds frantic. "It's all right," the older woman quickly reassures her. "No one else knows you're up here."

"Did Gerry tell you?" Now she sounds frantic and angry.

"I figured it out. I do know a thing or two about detective work." Esther glances over her shoulder. She knows she isn't quite visible from downstairs, but what if someone pops up to use the upstairs loo? Carrying on a whispered conversation through the door is likely to attract notice. "Can I be of any help?"

"I'm, ah, I'm stuck."

Esther frowns. "Do you mean the door's jammed?"

"No, I mean I can't come out."

"That's no problem. I can help you get downstairs and out the front without anyone seeing – they're all eating now – and we can bring you right back in again." _Easy peasy_.

"No, I – I'm not… dressed appropriately."

_Oh. Ohhh. That does complicate things_, muses Esther.

"There's a bag on the front seat of my car with a change of clothes. I parked –"

"I know," Esther interrupts to save time. "I'll be back in a flash if –"

"The keys are in my coat pocket, but I don't know where my coat is. Downstairs somewhere."

"I'll find it," Esther replies confidently, and Sandra gives her the colour, designer, and size, just in case. "I'll be back soon, Sandra. Don't worry."

Esther melts back downstairs. Brian is so deep in explicating whatever theory he's worked up that he won't notice if she's missing for a quarter of an hour or so. There's a wardrobe near the door, and Esther isn't surprised to find Sandra's coat nestled among Gerry's. She slips her right hand into the pocket and encounters the metal of Sandra's key ring.

She's smiling as she glides out of the flat, still unseen, and thinks_, I always have fancied the idea of a spot of undercover work._

2.

Twenty minutes later the buzzer goes, and Esther just happens to be standing right inside the door, so she opens it and leads the new arrival into the dining room where Gerry relaxes at the head of the table with a glass of port. "Look who's here," she announces merrily.

"Hi, Sandra," Brian calls through a mouthful of food from halfway down the table. Everyone else has finished eating, but trust Brian still to be working his way through what looks like an entire smoked duck all to himself.

"Oh, Sandra!" The enthusiastic exclamation comes from Carole, who has been vaguely worried that the absence of Gerry's boss meant he was still in the shit over his involvement in the Bracknell debacle.

"Now everyone's here who should be," Paula says warmly.

"Are you hungry, Sandra? We've got heaps of food," Caitlin pipes up.

"Sorry I'm late." Sandra's eyes skim over the table and come to rest on the man of the hour. "Happy birthday, Gerry."

The look on his face since she walked in the door has been indescribable, and when she reaches for the belt of her overcoat, it turns priceless. All the colour drains from his face and he stares. Fortunately no one but Sandra or Esther notices. _As if I would_, Sandra thinks, disgusted, and watches Gerry's expression of anticipatory horror turn to one of complete shock as she slips the coat off to reveal her favourite jeans and an innocuous if clingy dark green top made of very soft t-shirt fabric. Yes, her hair and makeup are different from the norm, and she still has on the strappy heels, but she simply looks as if she's headed somewhere a bit more posh later on than her mate's gaff for a birthday do.

Conversation resumes. Sandra disappears into the kitchen, and when Gerry comes looking for her after most people have dispersed from the table, she's leaning over the island, dragging a miniature samosa through mango-lime relish.

"Shit, Sandra," he whispers furiously, stopping on the other side of the island and looking directly into her eyes. _She will never, never, ever come back again_, he thinks. She's just spent slightly more than an hour locked in his bedroom in the dark playing quiet mouse, still mouse. Strictly speaking, this isn't his fault, but he doesn't expect that to stop from eviscerating him.

She isn't glaring at him, though. If anything she's blushing slightly. He has seen her truly embarrassed once before, on a very memorable night, so he recognizes the phenomenon.

"It's not your fault," she whispers back, glancing down as she scoops up another samosa. "It was my brilliant idea to break the rules."

"It was an incredibly brilliant idea," he insists forcefully, and she actually chuckles reluctantly. "Now, how the hell did you – Where did you get -?" He gestures toward her fully clothed form.

"From my car." She munches on a carrot stick. "With help." He shoots her an enquiring look and she shakes her head. "We'll talk about it later. I'm deciding whether or not to panic. Will you get me a drink?"

"Don't panic. It's not your style." He squeezes her elbow, which as much of a touch as he'll allow himself right now, and goes out to the lounge to get her a scotch, neat.

Later Sandra catches Esther's arm as she turns away from the kettle with a fresh cup of tea. "Esther," she murmurs, and breaks off. So Sandra does blush under the right circumstances, Esther notes, and waits. The tea bag needs to steep for four minutes anyway.

"Jack and Brian don't know anything about this," Sandra continues after a pause, "and I'd rather they didn't."

Esther simply gazes at her silently. Sandra thinks she looks disappointed, but she doesn't know what that disappointment means.

"Please, Esther, you won't –" she begins earnestly, and the older woman briskly interrupts.

"No, obviously I won't say anything. But maybe you should."

Sandra's expression remains neutral, but she thinks, _And maybe I should pack in this whole police racket and become a professional chef, but that isn't bloody likely either. Sometimes good teams _do_ have secrets._

The clock has crept past ten. The second Gerry Standing is sleeping peacefully in his grandfather's bed; Brian and Esther are wending their way homeward; Amelia and Paula are tidying up; Caitlin and Jacob have disappeared (Gerry has no desire to dwell on this); Jack, Sandra, and Emily are deep in conversation; and Gerry is lifting a glass to his three wives, who face him on the sofa.

"To three lovely, intelligent women," he says grandly, "who have enriched my life and depleted my bank account for so many years. Cheers, ladies."

They all drink before Alison says, "Honestly, Gerry, get some new material, can't you?" She offers a good-natured smile, though. She and Gerry never should have gotten married, a fact which they both take in stride in a sort of "no harm, no foul" unspoken agreement. Amelia isn't the only lasting reason they're fond of one another.

Carole stands up, looking extremely tall and dark between the two petite blondes. "Home time," she decrees. "Al, are you ready?"

As the other two say their good-nights, Carole dashing upstairs to kiss her slumbering grandson, Jayne turns to Gerry, leaning in and softly saying, "Gerry, do you think we could… talk? There are some things I've wanted you to know since Caitlin's wedding, but somehow the chance never comes up."

"Of course." He instinctively pats her knee. "I'm all yours."

Jayne glances across the room at the other remaining guests. "In private," she specifies. "I could stay behind after the others have gone, have another birthday drink…?"

Gerry doesn't react visibly as his brain scrambles to figure out just what Jayne is suggesting. Surely he recognizes the low, caressing vibration of her voice, the tiniest bit of apprehension in her eyes, the barely perceptible tinge of pink on her cheeks and throat.

His eyes dart very quickly to where Sandra sits, laughing at something Jack has said. She has one long leg thrown casually over the other, and beneath the cuff of her jeans Gerry glimpses a flash of sheer black stocking.

"I'm knackered," he says, reluctant to lie to Jayne but fully aware that if he says it's "not a good time," she'll know exactly what that means. When his eyes return to hers, hers are shadowed, and a slight frown puckers her forehead.

"Right," she says, rising. "Maybe another time, then."

Jack, Sandra, and Brian have been taking the piss for the better part of a decade thanks to Gerry's belief that everything in life revolves around sex, but what they don't acknowledge, he thinks now, is that he's right. He is not imagining the veiled invitation in Jayne's words. He really does know a thing or two about women.

"Right," he echoes, standing and giving her a hug. "Another time." Definitely not this time, when Sandra Pullman is sitting in his flat, her casual attire concealing the fact that beneath her ordinary clothing she's the living, breathing incarnation of young Gerald LeStade's most vivid, fevered fantasies. It may have taken half a century, but fantasy is finally meeting reality, and Gerry would have to be an exceptionally stupid man to let that slip from his grasp.

Sandra feels his bright blue eyes on her, turns to meet his appraising look, and flashes a quick grin.

"I'll see if Paula and Gerry want a ride," Jayne says in an altered tone. "Happy birthday." She leans up to press her lips against Gerry's cheek, then vanishes into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later Amelia, Emily, Jack, and Sandra all walk out together, the last of the guests to depart. Gerry follows them to the door and stands in the entryway, waiting. His patience is rewarded ten minutes later by a quick, businesslike rap on the door.

He tugs Sandra across the threshold into his arms, and as he lightly strokes her back between her shoulder blades, she firmly announces, "Exceptions are a bad idea, Gerry."

_That_, he thinks, kissing her temple, _is another battle for another day_. He says, "You can't take back a gift you've already given. That's not fair play, gov."

She smirks. "I always try to be fair. Tough, but fair." With that she steps back, pulls the top over her head, and bends down to unbuckle her shoes. The sight of her bending over, hair falling into her eyes, certain prominent features of her anatomy in imminent peril of spilling over the top of the corset, is one that Gerry is sure will be permanently embedded in his memory.

She steps out of the shoes, shimmies free of the jeans, and stands facing him with a slight smile curving her lips and her hands on her hips. "See anything you like?" she teases. She'll have to tell him about Esther and figure out what to do next, but now is not the time. It's his birthday, she's dressed up like some ridiculous 1950s high-class hooker, and he's looking at her with an expression of boyish glee that's strangely endearing, as if she's giving him the best present he's ever received.

She takes his hand. "Let's try this again," she suggests, leading him up the stairs.

When she has him seated on the bed, positioned exactly as they were over three hours ago, her fingers linked loosely behind his neck, he reaches out and runs his hand over the black satin where it covers the gentle swell of her abdomen and says the last thing she expects: "Sandra, is this vintage?"

She shoves him hard enough that he topples over backwards, and she collapses beside him, laughing helplessly. "Yes, Gerry, it is," she replies, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Just like you – you _tosser_."

_Thanks very, very much to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. You're all superstars._


	10. Lunch in an Elevator

_Some of you may be mad at me for this one…_

**Chapter Ten: Lunch in an Elevator**

1.

"Brian still not back?" Gerry asks, irritated, as he returns from his post-prandial fag break. "I wish he'd get a move on. It's half past one. If the guv'nor gets back from her meeting with Strickland before we've even left for the records office, she'll have my guts for garters."

"It wouldn't be your fault if Brian is out chasing up some idea," Jack responds mildly.

"I know that and you know that, Jack, but when has that ever made a difference to Sandra?" Gerry fidgets as he sits at his desk, eager to be off and doing something.

"Think of it in abstract terms, Gerry: when Sandra gives you a tongue-lashing for something you haven't done, it's just the universe's way of paying you back for past indiscretions – so justice is being done."

"I have three ex-wives," Gerry responds gloomily. "I pay for my past indiscretions every month, in pounds sterling."

2.

Six and a half floors up, Sandra braces her elbow against the elevator wall and sighs. "I knew I should've taken the stairs." When her fellow sufferer doesn't answer, she looks over her shoulder. "Are you all right, Brian?"

Brian has his eyes closed as he leans against the back wall. "Considering that I have a fear of confined spaces and we are most certainly confined here, I think I'm doing reasonably well."

Sandra winces. "Someone is bound to realize soon that the elevator is stuck," she assures him brightly.

"Not soon enough."

They've already learned the hard way that the emergency call button is non-functional. The elevator car lurched to a sudden and unscheduled stop some twenty minutes ago – twenty-two minutes, thirty-seven seconds, Brian would tell you if you asked him – and is becoming uncomfortably stuffy as the temperature gradually but steadily climbs higher. Sandra doesn't need to ask Brian to know that he's taking slow, measured breaths because he's trying to convince himself that they're not running out of oxygen and doomed to slow suffocation, a la _King Solomon's Mines_. He eyes her dispassionately, and she can practically see his precise brain clicking away, using her bone structure and body mass to determine her lung capacity, or some such, and establish exactly how much oxygen she's consuming.

_You know what to do, Pullman._

"What did you think of Michelle Lawrence's story?"

"She's lying."

"I think so too. She can't know as little as she claims – she was thirteen when it happened, not three – but is she covering up for her father, her brother, Reynolds, or someone else entirely?"

Brian slides down the wall into a sitting position, his arms folded over his chest. "Don't know."

Sandra hitches up her red skirt and joins him on the floor, partially to keep him company, but also because even her favourite black boots sometimes make her arches ache. ("Must be the flat feet," she hears her mother saying, and mentally swats Grace away. I'm busy right now, Mum.) "Look, I'm nearly half an hour late for my meeting with the DAC. He's probably already called down looking for me, and he and the boys will eventually put two and two together, if nothing else." She smiles. "And do you think all those lazy arseholes in fraud are going to stand for having to take the stairs?"

"Gerry will be wondering where I've got to," Brian adds, sounding the tiniest bit less gloomy. "We're meant to be going to check through the military records."

"Yes, you are, and Gerry will be playing merry hell at the thought of having to do all that hard graft by himself." She grins at Brian. "Good thing I didn't tell you to go with Jack. He'd never shop you to me."

"About Gerry," Brian begins, and pauses weightily as if considering his words carefully. Oh, shit, thinks Sandra. She's succeeded in distracting Brian from his fears, but at what cost? Esther can't have told him; she wouldn't. But then, Brian is some sort of savant, a brilliant Holmesian detective who seems completely unable to read people in social settings, yet who somehow develops X-ray vision when he puts his detective hat on. Sandra has more than once had the awkward, vulnerable feeling of knowing that some falsehood or omission was transparent to the former inspector.

"What about him?"

"Do you think he's been behaving at all strangely?"

_Certain signs of the apocalypse #174: _Brian_ wants to know if I think _Gerry _is behaving strangely. _"This is Gerry we're talking about," Sandra says. "He's pretty predictable, Brian."

"He is an' all," Brian returns immediately. "That's why I'm worried. You haven't noticed?"

It's probably best to tread carefully. "He doesn't seem worried or upset," she replies, going for neutrality. "He's not banging on about money the way he used to."

"No, I doubt it's anything financial. I –" He breaks off and hesitates, as if considering whether it's wise to proceed. "I think it's more serious than that, Sandra," he continues solemnly. "I think he may be ill."

Right – _not _what she was expecting. "He doesn't look ill," she responds reasonably, "and he hasn't been off sick."

"There are other signs." Brian darts a look from the corner of his eye, as if he's afraid they might be overheard even trapped in the elevator. "He's not been playing poker online; he hardly said a word when I told him Chelsea were sure to have a losing season; he was excessively polite to DAC Strickland yesterday; and he's cut back his workday ration of fags from fifteen to twelve."

Sandra sternly represses a smile. "I have to tell you, Brian, that you haven't said anything that leads me to believe his demise is imminent." Her stomach rumbles loudly in the confined space. According to her watch, it's gone two, and she hasn't had time for lunch.

"There's more," Brian returns darkly. "I've not gotten to the oddest part. While you and Jack were out yesterday afternoon he volunteered to help me with a bit of filing, and he's only been late in once in the past two weeks."

_That's Gerry_, Sandra thinks, _that paragon of good-humoured responsibility_. "You mean he's finally decided to do his bloody job? How novel," she responds, a bit more harshly than necessary. How fitting: Brian is deeply suspicious because Gerry is behaving too well.

"You're cranky because your blood sugar's low," Brian says, unfolding himself to reach into one of his jacket's many cavernous pockets. He produces a pre-packaged sandwich. "Bacon and salad. Have half."

She gratefully accepts. Is it strange, she wonders idly, as Brian opens the packaging and hands over half his lunch, that sitting on the floor of the elevator, going halfsies with Brian, doesn't seem much out of the ordinary? "I don't suppose you have a packet of crisps in your other pocket," Sandra jokes, and only blinks when Brian holds up a small bag of Walker's.

"Good man, Brian," she lauds through a mouthful of sandwich.

"You can have a bit of me orange, too."

"You deserve a rise in pay," Sandra replies with a twinkle. "If I ever get stuck in an elevator again, I'll arrange to have you with me."

"It's better than being on me own." It's not exactly extravagant praise, but Sandra knows the man well enough to take it for a compliment. She stretches her legs out straight and crosses her ankles, and Brian actually chuckles.

"What?"

"Better me than Gerry, hey? Unless you fancy a lunch of fags and breath mints."

Sandra grins. There are other reasons it's probably best she's not confined in here with Gerry. There's not a lot to do in an elevator. "I don't think you need to worry about Gerry, Brian. He seems healthy enough."

"There's something I haven't told you."

She waits, feeling the first tiny niggle of doubt. She'd know if there was anything wrong with Gerry, wouldn't she? He might not say, but she'd be able to tell. _I am a detective, after all_. Surely Brian is on the wrong scent altogether.

"Yesterday we went to interview Eslpeth Dalkins."

Sandra arches an eyebrow. "I'm aware of that, as I sent you."

"Listen, would you? Ms. Dalkins is… quite attractive. Even I noticed that much, Sandra. Expensively dressed, nice jewelry, quite slender, with long dark hair. She was even a bit flirtatious – had her eye on Gerry."

"She must need glasses," Sandra responds immediately, just out of habit.

"That isn't the point. Gerry didn't respond _at all_. You would've thought he'd sworn off sex altogether. So Jack said something afterward to Gerry about her practically gaggin' for it, and he didn't want to know. I ask you, is that at all like Gerry?"

"He prefers blondes," she says, because she has to say something.

"Oh, please. When has that ever stopped him?"

It's a fair point, and Sandra doesn't know how to respond. She is nowhere near romantic, young, or just plain stupid enough to think that Gerry Standing's famously roving eye has stopped roving because it's fixed on her. Blimey, she wouldn't even want that to happen. Part of the appeal of her – arrangement – with Gerry lies in the fact that neither of them has the illusion that it's a great romance. Sandra doesn't have to worry about counterfeiting the long-standing emotional commitment – okay, the _love_ – of which she seems, as Grace told her, incapable; Gerry isn't in danger of becoming emotionally entangled, because he's been emotionally entangled with someone else as long as she's known him, whether he fully realizes it or not.

Maybe that's it, she muses. For once, jack-the-lad Gerry is having his physical and his emotional needs met. By two different women, but then, that's par for the course with him. Gerry has always been perfectly frank; she has to give him credit for that. No matter how much he loves a woman, he's always looking for a bit on the side.

_Christ, I'm Gerry Standing's bit on the side, and I'm totally fine with that. My life is bizarre._

She's quite good at being the bit on the side, the other woman. Sandra has been on a long hiatus, but really, Gerry is the most recent in a long line of emotionally unavailable men to whom she steadily gravitates. At fifty years old, she can finally admit that she doesn't want all that messy relationship stuff; neither does she fancy living like a nun. She and Gerry are colleagues and, more importantly, good friends. He respects her – and, yes, she respects him as well (she just doesn't want it going to his head). They're really very different people with a handful of common interests, namely catching villains and eating good food. They're quite compatible, physically – who would _ever _have thought? Basically they provide a safe outlet for one another, and have a hell of a lot of fun together in the process, especially when Sandra doesn't have to be in governor mode. She's quite content with her life at the moment, which confirms what her mother said about her own emotional unavailability, but there you have it. Sandra Pullman is pretty happy.

Which is why she has to tread carefully and not cock it up.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Brian interrupts her thoughts, and she immediately wipes the unconscious expression from her face.

"Just thinking. How long would you say we've been in here?"

He glances at his watch. "Forty-two minutes."

"Christ." She tips her head back against the wall in disgust.

"I need to go to the toilet," says Brian.

3.

In the office, Gerry has just completed the undesirable task of fielding a call from an extremely irate Strickland, who informed him in no uncertain terms that Detective Superintendent Pullman needn't bother coming in that afternoon for the meeting for which she was an hour late, but that he'd expect a full report on their progress, in triplicate, on his desk by eight a.m.

_There_ _go my Thursday evening plans_, Gerry thinks morosely as he replaces the receiver. All right, he's a bit uneasy. Missing a meeting with Strickland is not Sandra's style. She and Brian still haven't returned from questioning Michelle Lawrence; they've been gone well over half the day. Gerry can't raise Sandra on her mobile, which is going straight to voicemail. Whenever she does turn up he'll catch hell for not having been to the army's records office, but he's worried. Probably irrationally, but worried.

He lifts the receiver of his UCOS phone and dials the front desk. "Mike, Gerry Standing down in UCOS," he greets the sergeant who answers. "You haven't seen my guv'nor or Brian Lane at all this afternoon, have you?"

"Er, yeah, mate, actually I have. She's got on that red skirt today, you know, so I remember." Gerry did know. "Richards had just brought me a sarnie, so I reckon 1:30 or so."

"Did you notice where they went?"

"Not particularly. I suppose they just got on the elevator, didn't they? Must've done."

_Oh, bleedin' hell_, thinks Gerry as he hangs up. _Sandra is not going to be happy about this_.

4.

"I suppose he could be involved with someone," Brian says, startling Sandra, who has almost drifted into a light doze.

"Gerry?" she asks around a yawn. "Don't you think we'd've known in thirty seconds?"

He shrugs. "Not necessarily. If he were serious about some woman, I can imagine him keeping it to himself."

It does somehow make sense, and Sandra reflects that in a way Brian is right even though he's wrong. The primary reason for Gerry's silence, she knows, is that he realizes if he were to say so much as one word about giving her one on the quiet, it would be the _last_ thing he ever said.

But he hasn't said a word to her about Jayne, either. And he won't.

Recently Sandra had begun to wonder if Emily was wrong about her father's feelings for his ex-wife, but then she'd had the opportunity to observe them together Saturday night. They'd spent a great deal of time together, talking and laughing, and Sandra had realized that the interest wasn't one-sided. If anything, it was Jayne who sought Gerry out, sitting next to him at dinner and then right beside him on the sofa, engaging him in a tete-a-tete when the other wives had departed. And, too, there were the reluctant glances Gerry had kept darting at Sandra as he and Jayne conversed. Part of Sandra had thought it would be kinder just to go and leave them to their own devices; but she'd gone to the trouble of putting on the corset, and she'd be damned if she was going to have to get out of it by herself too. Besides, she'd made it pretty clear that tonight she was a sure thing, and Jayne was still a gamble, if she judged rightly. Gerry, like most men, liked a sure thing.

That should've been a little demoralizing, she supposed, but with the silk and lace chafing against her tender skin in very interesting places, it hadn't been. And then Gerry had been very appreciative of his birthday present.

"Well, maybe," she says to Brian noncommittally. "But I'm not going to be the one to ask him about it." She absently wipes her fingertips, which are sticky from the juice of the orange, on the hem of her jumper.

That's when they hear banging, and a voice calling up the elevator shaft, "Ah, ma'am? And Mr. Lane? We'll have you out shortly."

"Gov, you two all right up there?" calls a much more familiar voice, and Sandra knows Gerry is worried about Brian because of his claustrophobia. "I _told_ Strickland you wouldn't just miss your meeting."

It's Brian who answers, smiling as he divides the last two orange sections and hands one to Sandra. "We're fine, Gerry," he shouts. "Just having a bite of lunch."

_You have no idea how thrilled I am to get your feedback!_


	11. You Can't Take it With You

_Some of you may be getting impatient for some sort of resolution – But you didn't really think it was going to be that easy, did you?_

**Chapter Eleven: You Can't Take it With You**

1.

The wind isn't particularly cold, but it's vicious as it whips Sandra's hair – it's getting too long; she should have it cut – into her eyes and mouth and tosses a generous amount of unidentified street grit against her skin for good measure. Squinting, she can just make Gerry out as he crosses the street toward her, hunching forward against the wind.

"It's about time," she gasps, the wind stealing her breath. "I've been standing on this god-forsaken corner for ten minutes, trying not to get blown away by this bloody hurricane. Wherever we're going, let's go there."

"Your wish is my command." He links Sandra's arm through his – even with the wind gusting around them, she's close enough to catch the familiar scent of cigarettes and peppermint – and they set off briskly.

"Here," he says after half a block, tugging her to a stop outside a brightly illuminated arthouse cinema. She's been here before, but not for years.

"What are we doing here?" Sandra demands as if he's brought her to skid row.

Gerry gestures overhead, where the marquee spells out Frank Capra Retrospective Wed. – Sun. "This may come as a shock, gov, but we're seeing a film."

"Oh, no." Her eyes land on his as she tries to yank her arm away, but he only grasps her more tightly. "That's not the deal, Gerry."

"What, are you that impatient? I'm flattered." That earns him a glare, but he is unfazed. "This is well within bounds, Sandra. We've got dinner –" He holds up the brown paper bag he grips in his free hand – "which is something _you'll_ quite like, and which we're going to sneak into the cinema and eat while we watch one of _your_ favourite films, all right?"

Sandra looks hesitantly at the entrance. She isn't sure why this deviation from their routine makes her so uneasy. Perhaps it's because it feels too much like a "proper" date.

"Pretend it's a theme restaurant," he cajoles, and tugs on her elbow. "Come on, it starts in fifteen minutes, and I don't want to be stuck in the front row."

"You've never seen a film from the front row in your life." (She's not wrong, and he doesn't plan to start tonight, with her of all people.) She considers. "What's the movie?"

"_You Can't Take it With You_. I know you've got that one on DVD, but I thought you'd like seeing it on the silver screen an' all."

Sandra bites her lip. It's a sweet, thoughtful gesture. What could it hurt, really? "And what's in the bag?"

"Jamaican patties."

Oh, he knows her too well. "Final question: does this cinema do popcorn?"

"Of course. I know my demographic."

She can't help smiling. "Then what are we waiting for? I don't want to be stuck in the front row."

Ten minutes later, the lights have already dimmed when Gerry joins Sandra in the two seats she's staked out for them at the far end of the back row. He hands over the popcorn and one of the sodas, and when he drapes his arm across her shoulders, not only does she not protest, but she curls into his side – as much as she can with the armrest between them – and rests the top of her head against his cheek, which is slightly scratchy by this time of day.

He grins. "Nice seats, Sandra," he whispers. "You know what happens in the back row of the cinema, don't you?"

"I might have an inkling."

He leans in to kiss her and she turns her head so his lips smack into her ear. "Feed me," she says, all business.

The film's opening credits scroll across the screen as Gerry hands over one of the sweating styrafoam containers. Sandra has been skittish since his birthday nearly two weeks ago. She's reluctant to discuss it, so Gerry still doesn't know exactly what happened before her unexpected reappearance in the midst of his surprise guests, but he's quite sure she didn't magically conjure up a full set of clothes, and no way did she have them secreted about her person when she'd initially arrived. She'd somehow managed to avert disaster, but she'd made it clear that there would be no more exceptions: they were playing strictly by the rules from now on.

The problem was that she'd written the rule book, and Gerry had never been very fond of rules. He knows that with Sandra, though, the trick will be to bend, not to break.

She won't even spend the night, let alone stay for breakfast. She won't let him cook dinner for her. But, by God, she can at least go to the _movies_ with him.

Onscreen a flummoxed Jimmy Stewart is meeting Jean Arthur's very eccentric extended family, and Sandra lightly presses her lips to Gerry's jaw, as if she can read his thoughts. He grins. Sandra was a good girl growing up, and he knows perfectly well that good girls love to be bad. Gerry smoothes his fingers over her silky hair – it's getting long, and he loves the way it feels between his fingers – and guides her mouth to his for a proper kiss. No, he thinks, you never get too old for this. Something about the innocence of it all is as exciting as being a teenage boy on his first date with the prettiest girl in the class.

In fact, everything about Sandra is exciting. How did he go this many years without touching her, without kissing that wide, smiling mouth? Was he blind? Deaf? Insensible?

Gerry isn't anywhere near as arrogant as he leads people to believe, but Sandra is obviously enjoying this as much as he is. _Baby steps_, he thinks, chuffed with himself.

He really did bring her to see the film, though, or at least part of it, so he gently disengages himself and coaxes until she rests her head against his shoulder again. He'd feel like he was a kid again, only being a kid was never this satisfying.

Sandra feels vaguely guilty, like she's doing something she shouldn't.

It's pretty fantastic.

The two hours pass rapidly, and when the lights come up abruptly as Jimmy and Jean live happily and weirdly ever after, Sandra blinks rapidly as she smoothes her hair, restoring some semblance of order.

"That wasn't so painful, was it?" Gerry teases as they round up their rubbish and slip into their coats.

"I'll probably live." Her tone is dour, but she can't help the brilliant smile that breaks across her face.

"Sandra!" exclaims a familiar voice. "And Gerry! Look who it is, Brian."

Her smile disappears instantly to be replaced by an expression of horror. Gerry saves her from having to speak. "Oh, hello, mate," he says cheerfully to Brian. (_It could be worse_, he thinks; _it could be Jack_.) "I thought you hadn't been to the pictures since _Lawrence of Arabia_ or summat."

"Esther's a fan of the classics." Brian looks to Sandra. "This was one of the films she recommended when you were off sick in the fall."

Sandra has sufficiently recovered to participate in the conversation. "It's one of my favourites. When Gerry told me it was playing, I dragged him along. Too bad we couldn't round Jack up too," she finishes glibly, and Gerry shoots her an approving look.

"Come now, Brian, I'm famished." Esther is leading her husband away before he can ask any really awkward questions. "You'll see Gerry and Sandra at work tomorrow," she adds, as if Brian is a little boy who doesn't want to leave his friends in the schoolyard.

The cinema has emptied out by this point, and Sandra flops down heavily in the seat she had just vacated. "Shit," she swears, dropping her head into her hands.

Gerry lays his hand on her back. "It's not that bad," he says. "I'm fairly certain it's not illegal to see a film with a friend."

"It bloody well is that bad. Shit, shit, shit!"

His palm rubs gently between her shoulder blades and she flinches away, lifting her head. "Let's get out of here," she mutters. "We never should've been here in the first place."

Gerry doesn't think it would help his cause to point out that they could just as easily be observed in a restaurant.

Sandra follows Gerry the short distance back to his flat, but she's in a foul mood. He pours her a drink and she paces around like a caged animal, practically wearing a hole into the carpet. Gerry lets her be for a solid twenty minutes, sitting in his armchair and watching her, but eventually he's had enough. He stands up abruptly, creating a sudden roadblock in her path.

"Stop," he says calmly. "Either stand still or sit down, but stop wearing out my bleedin' floor, and tell me what you're thinking."

Sandra glowers at him for a moment, and then the anger leeches out of her expression and she lowers herself to the sofa. She releases a heavy sigh. "We're taking too many chances."

He sits down next to her, not touching. "I don't think Brian suspects anything," he says, which is not exactly a response.

"It's only a matter of time." She runs her fingers through her windblown hair, tired, heavy. She feels his eyes on her but doesn't turn toward him. "Esther knows."

"Because we were at the cinema together? Sandra, relax."

"Don't tell me to sodding relax!" she flashes out, her bright eyes snapping to his. "She knows because she found me half-naked in your bedroom and got my bloody clothes out of my bloody car for me!"

_Oh._

Gerry's temper sparks in reaction to hers, but he forces himself to keep calm, knowing a shouting match will only escalate the situation. "She obviously hasn't said anything to Brian," he says, aiming for a tone that's soothing without being patronizing.

Predictably, it doesn't work. "Brian's some sort of fucking savant, and then there's Jack – Jack could rattle off a list of every lie I've ever told in the last thirty years." She stands up again, too agitated to sit, and picks at the chunky silver pendant hanging from her necklace. "Jesus suffering _Christ_, Gerry, I'm completely buggered!"

Does she even realize she's shouting? It obviously comes so naturally to her. Well, it comes pretty naturally to him too.

"Oh, _you're_ buggered, are you?"

She plants her clenched fists on her hips. "When the entire Met finds out I've been having it off with _you_, then yes, I am! I'll be a laughing stock."

Gerry has likewise leapt to his feet, but unlike Sandra, he stands very still. A muscle twitches convulsively in his jaw, the only visible sign of emotion. "Cheers, Sandra. Thanks. If that's what you think, maybe you might've thought of it beforehand, yeah? You wouldn't want anything to blacken your precious reputation, especially not contaminating yourself with the likes of me."

Her eyes are dark, her jaw as firmly set as his. "You know the reputation you have, Gerry," she retorts. "Gerry Standing, twisting all the tarts round his little finger."

"Yeah, I do. And you ought to know it well enough yourself after all these years."

Sandra can't argue, so she snaps, "And naturally my highest ambition must be adding another notch to your very well-worn headboard, right?"

Gerry's had enough bloody abuse. He's been waiting for Sandra to realize he isn't nearly good enough for her, but he hadn't realized how much the words would burn coming from her lips. It's like getting a full-body acid bath, and he wants to wound her in retaliation. "You seemed willing enough when you threw yourself at me right after your mother's funeral, and when you turned up at me front door dressed like you were on the bloody game. I guess Detective Superintendent Pullman learned a thing or two when she was based in Soho – But I've got to tell you, sweetheart, you're a little long in the tooth to pull in the top price."

She flinches as if she's been slapped, but has her features under perfect control in less time than it takes her to count to five.

"You're that desperate that you're reduced to lettin' me give you one, are you? Against your better judgment."

Part of Sandra's brain, the part that's still logical and reasonable, understands that Gerry's lashing out like a wounded animal because she's hurt him and he wants to do damage in return; but the rest of her is too angry to care. Angry and, yes, hurt.

"Against my better judgment," she echoes coldly. "It's obvious that I should go now. I guess that's the first smart decision I've made where you're concerned in quite a while."

"Very likely," he agrees frigidly. Then he sits down and clicks on the television, as if she's already left and he couldn't care less. As she stalks to the door and yanks on her black coat, she's aware that he has found the bloody darts tournament and is watching it as raptly as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Tosser," she mutters as the door bangs shut behind her. The rush of cool air feels good against her feverishly hot cheeks and steals much of the fire from her anger. She sets out briskly for her car, wanting to stay angry, wanting the hot rush of anger to cover the feelings she wants to keep at bay, the hurt and the shame and the creeping sadness. But the anger slips away, ephemeral, and she's left alone with her thoughts and the howling wind and the tap of her boot heels on the pavement.

_You've really cocked it up this time, Pullman. Honest truth: you were so afraid that someone would find out about you and Gerry and destroy the delicate balance of UCOS that you've gone and done it yourself to save them the trouble. How do you think Gerry is going to look at you tomorrow morning?_

She doesn't want to think about that, but she _really_ doesn't want to think about how he looked at her when she said she'd be a laughingstock if anyone at work found out she was involved with him.

It would be a disaster for her, professionally, if people knew; but she'd spoken to him as if he were some social disease, not her longtime colleague and friend. And he'd been right: she was willing enough, unfazed by his past until she needed a reason to slag him off for something that wasn't even his fault. He hadn't told Esther, or anyone else, about the two of them. If anyone was to blame, it was Sandra. Not only had it been her idea to turn up at Gerry's dressed like an expensive prostitute, but, more importantly, she had initiated their, ah, extracurricular activities in the first place.

When she gets to her car and reaches for her keys, she's almost relieved to realize they aren't there. They must have fallen out of her pocket in his flat.

She has to go back.

2.

Sandra has been sitting on the stoop for twenty minutes when Gerry opens the building's main door, and she nearly topples backward into the hallway.

"Are you going to sit there all night, or would you like to come in?" He no longer sounds angry, but exactly like she feels, tired and wary.

"I was thinking about it."

"Let me know when you've decided," he says, and shuts the door.

Five minutes later she knocks resolutely at his door, and when he answers, admits, "I dropped my keys."

"I know." He holds them out with his left hand.

She takes the keys hesitantly, then looks up, cautious, to find his eyes. "Can I come in?"

He hesitates too before nodding once and stepping aside so she can pass. "Take your coat?"

She hands it over very quickly and they stand looking at one another for several awkward minutes. He speaks first. Gerry Standing is very proud, very stubborn, but it's easier for him to admit his mistakes than it is for her. He's had considerably more practice. He isn't exactly eloquent, but he gets straight to the point: "I was talking a pile of shit before, you know."

Their eyes are locked, blue on blue, and he's able to see the relief wash over her. "So was I, Gerry. You know how much I –" Sandra isn't quite sure how to end that statement. Like you? Respect you? "Care," she finally says, softly and a little lamely, but it's enough.

"C'mere," he says gruffly, and a long, drawn-out breath escapes her. Relieved, she steps into his arms and rests her cheek against his. Her skin is cold and smells of powder and subtle spice and fresh air.

Sandra isn't good at putting her feelings into words – there is always the deeply unsatisfying sense that the awkward, stiff syllables express something quite different from what she means – but the vocabulary of physical touch comes more naturally. It's a language she hasn't used in too long, but in the last few months she has relearned it, refamiliarized herself with its nuances; and now, as she curls her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and breathes against his skin, she hears Gerry say her name, low and caressing, as if answering a question.

He strokes her hair and her spine, and she thinks with the same surprised, appreciative tingle it always causes of how gentle he can be, much more gentle than she is. "I'm glad I dropped my keys," she says.

They sit in the living room, eating cheese and crackers and fruit and drinking a crisp white burgundy. She insists that he leave the telly on what he's been watching, and when she asks who's winning, he admits that he has no idea. She settles herself on the floor, her back against the sofa and her head near Gerry's knee, and as they drink more wine his fingers toy with her hair, twining it through his fingers, massaging her scalp until she tips her head back and sighs, her eyes drifting closed.

"Come up here," he says when she's pleasantly floating in a warm, hazy world between waking and sleeping. She lounges on the sofa with him, her back nestled against his chest, and he draws a very soft green blanket over both of them. It's comforting and cozy and she's so relieved to be here with him rather than alone in her flat when she came so close to ruining everything just a couple of hours ago.

Gerry's gaze is fixed idly on the television, but his attention is focused on her, the softness of her body tucked into his, the gentle, steady rise and fall of her chest and shoulders with each deep breath, the warm weight of her. He feels her relax completely when at last she lets herself drift off to sleep, and he readjusts slightly, not wanting her to get a crick in her neck. Perhaps, he thinks, he has officially entered his dotage, but he's wanted this more than he cares to admit: the opportunity to watch her sleep and listen to her breathe, relaxed and peaceful. This shit evening has turned out to be pretty freakin' fantastic.

He knows she'll want to go home, so he fervently promises himself that he'll just allow himself this luxury for a little while, and then he'll wake her and she can be on her merry way.

He also knows, of course, that he's lying.

It's probably a bad idea to try to analyse his feelings very closely, and besides that, it's very uncool and un-Gerry Standing; so instead he wraps his arms firmly around Sandra, closes his eyes, and falls asleep as peacefully as a child.

3.

Sandra is disoriented when she opens her eyes. The sunlight streaming in relentlessly doesn't help as she blinks rapidly, forcing herself to focus on the familiar furniture and – oh, right – the less familiar feeling of surfacing to consciousness in someone's arms. Her lower back aches, but she's very warm and drowsy and struggles to remind herself why this is a Very Bad Thing, why she's not supposed to be lying on Gerry's sofa, their limbs tangled together, at – she squints – 6:07 in the morning.

Unprofessional. Career. Reputation.

Blah, blah, blah.

_There's no one else here_, she thinks. _No one can see us_. At the moment it strikes her as the most logical, self-evident response to her fears.

She stretches gingerly, trying her best not to disturb him, and is rewarded for her troubles with a kiss to the top of her head and a rough voice saying, "Morning, gov."

It should be exactly the wrong thing for Gerry to say, this reminder of their professional relationship, but it makes her laugh. "I have to go home and get ready for work," she murmurs. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You don't need to go right now. I can tell you exactly how long it'll take you to get to the office." His hand has slipped beneath the hem of her jumper to stroke her abdomen, tickling, and she wonders just how many women have spent the night with Gerry Standing without removing a single article of clothing.

"I have to _go_," she repeats firmly, but her eyes are closed and she makes no effort to pull away. His fingers creep upward, counting her ribs, and she hears herself giggle; it's not a totally foreign sound. "Stop, that tickles," she scolds as sharply as she can manage, but he's not deterred, if the way he nips at her earlobe can be taken as an indicator.

"I'll stop if you'll take this off,' he offers generously, tugging on the fabric.

Her mobile rings and he swears, but releases her so she can scoop it up from where it lies abandoned on the floor. Sandra glances at the display and sits up straight, both feet on the floor, smoothing her hair as if the caller will be able to see her.

"Good morning, sir… Yes… No, it's no problem. I'll be with you then."

She rings off and twists to look down at Gerry. "Now I really do have to go," she says, shoving a strand of hair out of her eyes. "That was Strickland. We have a new case."


	12. Two's Company

_Warning: Clumsy attempt at Jack-writing ahead. I don't know why he's so much more difficult for me than the others, but he is, so this is a little exercise I set for myself._

**Chapter Twelve: Two's Company**

1.

"It's just dinner," she said as he stammered a little awkwardly over the static-y connection. "I won't starve. Why should I mind? Tell her hello for me," she added recklessly, and then winced. _Right, Pullman, that's pushing it a bit too far._

"Not just dinner," he hedged. "Is it?"

Her hand slashed through the air in a sweeping gesture, as if Gerry could see her and be impressed by her worldly nonchalance. "All right," she agreed dismissively. "But you'd hardly say, 'Can't make it; I'm off for dinner and a shag with the governor,' would you? That'd be crass, Gerry, even for you."

There was a brief pause before he replied, "Great. Thanks for being so understanding."

"Why wouldn't I be?" she responded blithely. "Until tomorrow, then."

Indeed, why shouldn't she be understanding about the fact that Jayne's tearful phone call asking Gerry to meet her for drinks had caused him to bin his Thursday evening plans with Sandra as quickly as if they were one of yesterday's red tops? And if she's replaying the conversation in her head forty-five minutes later, it's only because she was quite looking forward to a meal at her favourite Ethiopian restaurant tonight and she doesn't fancy the idea of turning up and changing her booking for two to injera for one, like some sad, jilted spinster.

Which she isn't.

_Sod it_, she thinks. Gerry Standing isn't the only man in London – as she well knows, having dated approximately 32% of the adult male population over the past thirty-five years. If what she's missing is regular Thursday-night sex, she knows well enough how to get some of that.

Hmm. It sounds better than soup for one, she considers.

A quick check of her reflection in the bathroom mirror, a fluff of her artfully messy hair, a fresh layer of lip gloss, and Sandra Pullman is off to the races.

2.

When the doorbell rings, he considers not answering in the hope that his uninvited visitor will give up and go away. He's tucked up so comfortably with his fuzzy slippers, precisely measured Highlands scotch, and D.S. Don Beckham's notes on the 1992 disappearance of thirteen-year-old Richard Sharpe.

But, bollocks, that'll never work, because the only person who'd be ringing his doorbell tonight is Brian, and Brian will blunder round into the garden and climb through a window before he gives up and pisses off home to Esther's chastising. To save the rosebushes Mary tended so carefully for so many years, Jack unfolds himself and makes his way to the door, drink in hand.

"Sandra!" he exclaims. It's a measure of his surprise that Jack is exclaiming. When was the last time Sandra turned up unannounced at his door? She used to do it fairly frequently in the early days of UCOS. Then she'd gotten her feet properly under her and needed Jack to be less of a boss and mentor, more of a team member. They'd never discussed it, of course.

Then there was that whole horrible mess with her father. They'd never really discussed that either, and it had taken their relationship a long time and several false starts to climb out of that pit.

This is Sandra, so she doesn't apologize for perhaps having disturbed him. She just smiles and says "Hi," and he invites, "Come through."

"Drink?" he asks, already reaching for the bottle and glass, and she responds, "Yes, please." She hasn't turned up for no reason, but she seems in no hurry to share that reason, and although her expression might be described as mildly petulant, she doesn't seem heartbroken or enraged or even seriously perplexed. They sit in the living room, sipping their drinks in companionable silence; Jack is thinking that it's nice to have her here to keep him company, and wondering why he's never invited her for dinner in all these years.

_Because you don't invite anyone_, a voice responds helpfully. _That was Mary's remit_.

Jesus suffering Christ, that makes him sound like a pathetic old tosser. Billy-no-mates, spending all his evenings at home alone.

"Have you eaten?" she asks abruptly. At his negative shake of the head, she continues, "How do you feel about Ethiopian?"

Jack has never eaten Ethiopian food and isn't particularly fussed about beginning now, but going for dinner with Sandra suddenly sounds like exactly the thing he hadn't known he wanted to do on a chilly April Thursday evening.

"I'll get my coat."

3.

She's not entirely sure when her plans for the evening took a sharp left turn. Obviously it happened between her flat and Jack's house. Maybe it was when she stopped at a traffic light and, glancing over at the Mercedes to her right, was forcibly reminded of the last date she'd gone on pre-Gerry. The bloke had driven a Merc – same make and model. Mike. No, Mark. He worked in the City and talked a great deal about the markets and his rugby team and his bitch of an ex-wife, who, by the time the entrees arrived, was already sounding like Sandra's kind of woman, especially when Mark-or-Mike related how she'd thrown him out of their Docklands flat by cramming all his possessions into his Mercedes and parking it in the middle of a roundabout. His divorce papers had been served with a 500-pound parking summons.

What was it with men obsessing over their ex-wives, anyway? Why the endless fascination? To her it seemed that if it already hadn't worked once, you were just beating a dead horse.

Of course, she supposed if that dead horse was a petite blonde and weighed about a hundred pounds soaking wet and was the mother of your child and laughed at your sodding stupid jokes and had trouble telling you no…

Not that she was thinking about Gerry, or Gerry and Jayne having "drinks," or how that would inevitably end.

What does she care, as long as he washes his sheets before next week? She'll be sure to specify that in future.

But, Christ, she doesn't want to go home with some prat who chats her up at a restaurant bar, pretending to be interested in her scintillating conversation while peering down her top and hoping she'll whip out a pair of handcuffs if he's a really _bad_ boy. She's too old, too cynical, and, frankly, too proud for that. She can give as good as she gets, but she doesn't feel like giving, at least not to anyone capable of properly pronouncing his aitches.

It's not that she misses Gerry; it's just that she's really pissed at him for having the bad taste to have it off with his ex-wife on a Thursday night, when there are six other, perfectly good days in a week. But then, what could you expect from a man with that kind of taste in ties?

The cure for what ails her is a good meal, preferably shared with a good friend.

"There's no silverware."

Jack's comment brings her back to herself and she grins. "You don't need it. You just tear a bit of this off," she says, demonstrating with the injera, the spongy, crepe-like bread ubiquitous in Ethiopian and Eritrean cuisine, "and scoop – thus." She rolls the bread around a bite-sized portion of fragrant spiced lentils and pops the result into her mouth. She'd been looking forward to watching Gerry piss and moan about this aspect of the dining experience while trying to convince her he wasn't enjoying it, but Jack is more amiable, and soldiers on until he achieves a reasonable approximation of her technique.

"Do you like the green beans?"

"Yes, they're very good. Now, Sandra –" Jack pauses to take a mouthful of golden tej, the sweet but powerful honey wine. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or shall I guess?"

She raises an eyebrow and grins self-deprecatingly. "Oh, go on and guess, if it'll give you a bit of a thrill."

"You were supposed to have a date tonight."

She snorts. "Very impressive, Mystic Meg, since I told you as much."

"You said you had plans; I _deduced_ that those plans were a date. Furthermore, this is some bloke you've been seeing for a few months now."

She scoops more spiced cauliflower onto her plate. "Oh, have I?"

"Look at the way you're dressed: you're not trying to impress him."

Sandra looks down at her black jeans, dark blue top, and mustard-coloured cardigan. "Keep the compliments flowing, Casanova. I had no idea you were such a ladies' man."

"Oh, please, Sandra. You know how pretty you are –"

(_Pretty_, she thinks, and can't help smiling slightly. It's such a sweet, old-fashioned, avuncular word. She can't imagine Gerry ever calling her pretty. Sexy, a fit bird, gorgeous, even – that's his style. Not that she's thinking about Gerry.)

"—And you look lovely, as always, but you're not dressed to stun, are you? You've been seeing him since – I'd say January – and things are going well."

"And you can tell this because –"

"You don't shout any less, but you do smile more." He grins. "Do you think I don't notice?" She did, actually, so she only shrugs, and Jack continues, "Three months for you is about the equivalent of three years for most people, so it must be serious."

She has just taken a healthy drink of tej, but she swallows as quickly as humanly possible and protests, "It's not like that at all. We're just friends."

"Friends who have it off regularly?" he deadpans, and she gasps his name. Now it's his turn to shrug. "So what's happened tonight?"

"Nothing," she responds too quickly.

"You don't want to talk about it."

"Nope," she agrees with forced cheer, concentrating on the food.

"Fair enough." Jack diligently sops up a portion of yellow lentils. "Just tell me this: is he nice?"

"Nice?" she repeats wryly. "When have you ever known me to date a nice bloke?" (She's not _dating_ anyone, but that's beside the point right now."

"Well, he's makin' you happy, so there's hope. Is he nice enough, or is he a tosser?"

Sandra can't help grinning, and sips her wine as she considers. "Both," she finally admits frankly. "He's spent a lifetime perfecting the art of coming off as a tosser, but underneath he's a decent man."

"So the fact that you turned up at my house tonight isn't an indication that some bastard's broken your heart?"

"Heard-hearted Sandra Pullman, ball-breaker extraordinaire?" she retorts. "You've got to have a heart to get it broken, Jack."

"That's a load of cobblers." His voice is suddenly sharp.

She drinks more of her wine, then seeks his pale blue eyes. "No one's breaking my heart," she reassures much more softly. "I'm a big girl."

"Unfortunately, growing up doesn't make your heart any less vulnerable," he rejoins, pushing his empty plate away. "It just makes you older." He is smiling, though, and the way he pats her hand is affectionate. "Let's get out of here and go for dessert. I could fancy an ice cream. You're not too grown up for that, are you?"

4.

After dropping Jack off she heads to her flat, which seems darker and emptier than usual. She kicks off her shoes and tromps around switching on virtually every light in the place, as well as the television.

It's a quarter to nine. Sandra unwillingly engages in some very rapid mental mathematics. Drinks at six; dinner at 7:30; now they're en route to Gerry's flat, since Jayne's house is obviously out. He isn't the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am type, so they'll sit downstairs, open a bottle of wine. Will he choose a standard mid-range pinot, or open that bottle of Brunello he's been saving for a special occasion?

Not that it concerns Sandra.

She tears into her bedroom, strips down to her underwear – all right, yes, she makes sure to wear nice, matching underwear on Thursdays, and this is her favourite set, green so dark it looks black in this light but would shimmer nicely in Gerry's brighter bedroom – but hey, who cares, right? Women are supposed to wear nice things for themselves, just because, damn it to hell – and yanks on her oldest, rattiest pyjamas. It's not like anyone's going to see her in them.

She removes her makeup – Jesus, those open pores – and digs her fuzzy slippers out from the bottom of her closet, cursing her existence as she does and wondering why she can't live in Florida or Morocco or the West Indies, somewhere where the month of April would not fuzzy slippers require.

Sandra flops down on the sofa, finds a channel playing a very old episode of _Heartbeat_, and snuggles under a blanket. She usually thinks of her flat as cozy, but it isn't tonight; it's draughty. Gerry's is warmer.

Damn it, Gerry again, popping up like an unsightly jack-in-the-box.

Although he isn't unsightly. No, he's not what you'd call handsome, but his weathered face is… pleasant. Familiar. And his eyes are so vivid and youthful. They're a beautiful blue.

Oh, Jesus, when did she start thinking Gerry sodding Standing had beautiful blue eyes? They were just a plain, simple blue, like hers. And Jack's. And Brian's, come to think of it. That she knows the exact shade of Gerry's is pure chance.

Sandra stretches out full-length on the sofa and stares at the ceiling. There's a blot above her head from a bygone leak, and it looks like an ink blot test.

She's been very careful not to let Gerry come to her flat. Oh, he's been inside before, of course; but on Thursdays their routine is exact: they go to dinner, then back to his flat, and then she leaves in the wee small hours and goes home. It's very comfortable because she's in charge. She decides when to stay, when to go. She's still the gov.

All right, last week she'd fallen asleep and spent the night, but that was an aberration.

_It's Thursday night_, she tells herself. _I've had a lovely meal with Jack and am now perfectly content with my own company and that of a gang of impossible, outdated Yorkshire policemen. All is well at UCOS, and Superintendent S. Pullman will have a rich and fulfilling day at work tomorrow, followed by a relaxing weekend, during which I will utterly forget one infuriating egomaniac named Gerry Standing. Out, out damned Cockney!_

She won't think about what he's doing, or to whom, because she doesn't give a tinker's damn.

She won't wonder whether or not he twines Jayne's hair around his fingers precisely the way he does with hers. (He probably does.)

_Get a bloody grip, Sandra_.

That twisting ache in the pit of her stomach is due to two scoops of strawberry ice cream and a flake.

It's absolutely not jealousy. No way, no how.

Oh_, shit._

Sandra is a lot of things, but she's not a particularly good liar, especially not to herself.

_This is the deal Gerry and I have_, she reminds herself. _It's exactly what I want, and as long as I stick to it, everything will be fine. Better than fine. Great. Peachy keen._

_Abso-freakin'-lutely fantastic._

Exasperated with herself, Sandra burrows into the sofa, pulls the blanket over her head, and thinks about not thinking at all.


	13. The Beer Hunter

_Hi, all! Sorry for the extra-long delay. Yes, I am away on my travels (kisses from stop one, Croatia, for you all), and will update when I can, but alas, I can't promise any regularity. But hey, I am literally carting my big spiral notebook and my laptop all over Central Europe. - Also, please excuse the title. Sometimes I just can't resist making myself giggle and, most likely, the rest of you groan. Oh, also, I'm sorry for the weird tense shifts. Some are intentional; some aren't. Usually I'm sort of a perfectionist, but if I go back and fix it all, I'll never get this posted tonight._

**Chapter Thirteen: The Beer Hunter**

1.

What an amazingly crap day – and to make it worse, she has no one to blame but herself.

Sandra has been in a foul mood since she woke up half an hour late this morning, broke the heel on her favourite pumps on her way out the door, and saw that her left rear tyre was flat. And that was the high point of her day.

All right, arguably she's been in a foul mood since last Friday morning, when Gerry sailed into the office wreathed in smiles and bedecked in his flashiest tie and ugliest jumper, whistling "You Made Me Love You."

"Pulled some unwitting bird, have you?" Jack had asked with grim humour, and Gerry had actually pirouetted as he hung up his khaki-coloured coat.

"Nope." He'd peered into Sandra's office with a gay wave. "Top of the morning, guv'nor. Tea or coffee, lads and lovely lady?"

"What's up, then?" Jack demanded. "You're on time."

"Your cheerfulness is revolting at this hour," Sandra had put in with even more than her customary gentleness.

"Jayne," Gerry announced, "is getting divorced."

Sandra stared into the office. His predictability, she thought again, was disgusting. "Well, congratulations," she replied acidly. "Drinks all around."

"Now she won't be lumbered with that arsehole Jonathan – and neither will I, come to that." Gerry resumed his whistling as he set about making the tea.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "You've got Jayne back in the harem, then, have you?"

"I'm merely concerned with her welfare," the former sergeant had answered loftily, and Sandra rolled her eyes, safely hidden by her computer monitor. She sipped her hot coffee, but knew perfectly well that it had nothing to do with the slow burn creeping uncomfortably up her spine.

Over the past three days, as Gerry's insufferable good cheer had continued unabated, Sandra had decided just exactly why she was so hacked off. She hated, loathed, _despised_ losing. She'd been head girl, teacher's pet, top recruit – Hell, she'd even been Jack's favourite, and Jack Halford didn't play favourites. And for eight years she'd made Gerry's head spin. She liked that, that power. It was not one of her more stellar character points, but it was the same reason she'd made a habit of sleeping with other women's boyfriends and husbands: because she could. It often had little to do with men themselves; it certainly hadn't the first time she'd done it, back at Hendon. Sandra liked to win. It was her competitive nature.

… Which was obviously why she was here now, drowning her sorrows, already on her way to being properly pissed at 7:15 on Thursday evening. This crummy little bar on the outskirts of her neighbourhood was exactly what she needed tonight: small, shabby, obscure, and not even on the radar of anyone she knew.

Because today Sandra Pullman, all-time top girl, had won again.

Too bad it felt so much like losing.

2.

What an absolutely fantastic day – not that he could take much of the credit for it.

He'd been in generally high spirits since Jayne had told him she was ending her marriage. Yes, that probably sounded incredibly self-centred, egotistical, unfeeling, blah blah blah, but it really was for Jayne's own good. She deserved so much better than that twat – and no matter how much money and education he had, he _was_ a twat. And, yeah, she was upset, but she hardly seemed heartbroken. He strongly suspected she'd never been one hundred percent sure about the marriage, and he should know the signs, having been there himself.

Also, it was Thursday, officially Gerry's favourite day of the week. It was Sandra's week to pick the restaurant, so he knew he was in for an interesting dining experience, but the food definitely wasn't what had shivers running down his spine in anticipation.

Yeah, Gerry spent five days a week, eight hours a day, with Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman; but it had been two weeks since he'd gotten to see that other side of Sandra, the one that was terra incognita to Jack and Brian. An impromptu lunch with Emily, who'd been waiting for him in Sandra's office when Gerry and Jack got back from Hampton Row, had been a nice surprise but, much as he loved his daughter, not as nice a surprise as what had happened afterward.

Sandra had, quite frankly, been a bitch all week. Maybe it was perverse, some twisted product of his maladjustment and slew of bad relationships, but Gerry found bitchy Sandra almost irresistible, especially when the full measure of her discontent wasn't leveled exclusively at him, and this week had been characterized by equal opportunity bitchiness. If she ever realized how much it turned him on when she yelled at him, she'd laugh herself sick.

So he wasn't exactly reluctant when, late that afternoon, she'd emerged from her office and snapped, "Gerry, with me," even though her tone was nakedly hostile.

"Where are we going?" he asked as she burst into the car park. It was a good job there hadn't been anyone standing on the other side of the security door, because Sandra would just have broken his or her nose with her explosive force.

She shot him a cool look. "I'll drive," she said instead of answering, and whacked her handbag over at him.

And drive she did, her foot generous on the accelerator. "I have to be in with Strickland at 4:30," she murmured, checking the mirror before zipping into the next lane, "so we have to be back before then."

Gerry still didn't know back from where, but he didn't bother asking. Yeah, okay, Sandra wanted him to develop temporary blindness during working hours, but she looked absolutely devastating in solid black: black velvet blazer, black camisole thingy with a dangerously plunging neckline, very snug black jeans, chunky black heels. Somehow it made her look almost as dangerous as she was.

(Clearly he needed to get out more, preferably with a certain blonde.)

He snapped back to the present when she made a very sharp turn onto her street, then pulled to a teeth-rattling stop in front of her building. She cut the engine and sat calmly.

"Uh, Sandra?" he questioned with even more than his usual eloquence. He clutched her handbag in his lap, maybe for protection. "What are you doing?"

She turned her upper body toward him and pushed her oversized sunglasses up to anchor her hair. She looked him over thoughtfully, her deep blue gaze calculating, sizing him up. "You don't have any idea?"

Gerry gulped. He had some ideas; some very interesting ones. But this was Sandra.

"Come inside," she instructed in that same no-nonsense headmistress tone, and Gerry followed more obediently than he ever did as a schoolboy. "Lock the door behind you."

Ooh, ominous. And promising.

Just inside the door, she stripped off her jacket and regarded him with that same cool, almost cold expression on her face. "We have thirty-five minutes, Gerry. How do you propose we spend them?"

Gerry felt a little dizzy. Sandra sounded almost angry, but the invitation was blatant. "I'm sure we can think of something," he replied.

Approximately two minutes later he had ascertained that Sandra was indeed wearing solid black from head to toe, and that that pristine white sofa was softer than it looked. He would've liked to know what he's done to deserve such a very special treat, but he was afraid to ask. There was a hard, sharp, bright gleam in her eyes, but she felt deceptively soft and sweet in his arms.

When she dumped him in the car park and briskly set off to see the DAC, again looking totally polished and maddeningly professional, Gerry was relieved to find that he could still walk. Sort of.

That was nearly three hours ago, and the only fly in his blissful ointment is that he hasn't seen her since and can't raise her on her mobile.

He leaves a voicemail, leans back in his favourite chair, and closes his eyes. If his evening plans are going to include as much vigorous exercise as his afternoon did, maybe he should bide his time by taking a nap.

3.

What a pathetically mediocre day – but at least it was looking up.

"A pint of the Lion's 'ead, mate," Frank boisterously instructs the bar tender, "and keep 'em comin'. Aw, yeah, you beauty," he exults as the amber ale begins flowing from the tap into the streaked glass. Mother's milk. Come to papa, sweet'eart.

Lion's Head: for his money, the finest ale produced in the British Isles, and Frank Patterson considers himself an expert. Nothing compared with its frothy richness and deep, creamy undertones. When they retired, some people volunteered, tended the garden, hell, became fond of quiz shows and recreational pharmaceuticals. Not Frank Patterson.

Patterson was a man on a quest for spiritual fulfillment.

A quest for beer.

Well, ale, tonight.

The more obscure, the better, and Lion's Head was pretty damn obscure, especially this far south. After extensive research Frank had found three pubs that had it on tap. He habitually haunted one, but tonight, the horror! Its barrels were dry. The second was all the way out in Brixton. So here he was, in this little out-of-the-way hole at which he never would've looked twice otherwise. As he took his first deep, satisfying drink of the ale, his eyes lit on something – someone – that made him very glad he had taken that second look.

A few months ago he wouldn't have thought he had a snowball's chance in hell with Sandra Pullman, but now he finds himself thinking, _Give it a go, Frankie_. Her taste in men had untested depths, as he had recently discovered.

His night was about to improve immeasurably. Lion's head might even fall to second place.

4.

She'd known from the strength of her headache that wine wouldn't get it done tonight, and besides, she couldn't maintain any self-respect if she ordered wine in a place like this. Sandra is devoting herself diligently to scotch, and by 7:30 it seems like a reasonably sensible idea to answer her mobile when Gerry rings for the third time.

"Sandra, are you all right?"

She considers. "Fine," she decides. "Probably pissed, but not yet paralytic. I'm working on it, though," she informs him with dignity.

"What's wrong?" he demands immediately.

"I told you, Gerald." She laughs hoarsely. "Nothing."

There is a brief pause. "I'm coming to meet you." Gerry sounds subdued. "Tell me where you are."

"Sure, why the hell not? You can buy me a drink," she says philosophically, and gives him directions.

That's just before she hears that unmistakable voice ordering a pint. _Oh, shit_, she thinks, which is what she inevitably thinks when she hears Frank.

Maybe he won't notice her.

Right. This gaff is about the size of her bleedin' living room.

Again, shit. When did her internal voice start sounding disturbingly like Gerry?

Gerry. _Oh, hell, Sandra, what is wrong with you?_ she asks herself. She's behaving like a complete lunatic today. This afternoon – it doesn't bear thinking about. She wishes she could blame her behaviour on Gerry or Jayne or Emily, but she's an adult, and it's all down to her. _Congratulations, Pullman._

She'd been pleased for about five minutes when Emily dropped in looking for Gerry; then the younger woman had turned the conversation to her father and his third ex-wife.

"So obviously they're trying it on again," Emily had said rather apprehensively. "No one's saying anything, but you hardly have to be a detective to work it out. I don't think she's staying at dad's because he's having trouble making the rent."

Sandra hoped she didn't look as gob-smacked – and furious – as she felt. "Jayne is staying at Gerry's," she repeated, questioning.

Emily nodded.

Sandra immediately wanted to yank her computer monitor off her desk and hurl it through the window. Instead she said, "As long as he manages to turn up for work, it doesn't concern me."

But she couldn't stifle the hot flare of… competitive energy … that surged through her. So Gerry had jumped right back into playing happy families, and he hadn't even bothered to tell her. Well, fine. Fabulous. That wasn't Sandra's style, but he could have it.

He couldn't have her too, though. That was not their agreement, no matter what he might think – the tosser. Shagging him silly while he was in love with someone unattainable was one thing; having it off on the quiet now that he was, apparently, getting back together with his ex-wife, lucky number three, was something else entirely. Sandra wasn't looking to be Gerry's Ms. Right, but she certainly wouldn't be his "other woman." She'd had enough of dating married or seriously involved men. And if that man were Gerry Standing, who'd never met a woman he _didn't_ want to shag – Christ, it would be humiliating.

No, it was time for Gerry and Sandra to start treating Thursday like any other day of the week. No harm, no foul.

But first, she had chortled with glee at the thought of giving him something to remember her by.

_Very mature, Sandra. You'll have a hell of a time being his governor now he thinks you are _out of your bloody mind_._

Mission accomplished, though: he'd remember this afternoon.

_Shit._

"'Ello, Sandra! What a place to meet a lady."

As always, his timing is just perfect. "Hi, Frank." She turns on her bar stool to meet her fate. "If you see a lady, let me know."

_How quickly can I down this and piss off? But Gerry's coming. Oh, hell, what's Patterson going to make of that?_

"You here all alone?" Frank looks about as if someone might pop out of the woodwork, or as if the tubby inebriate to her lift is a likely prospect. "I suppose a certain ex-detective sergeant has another engagement, eh?"

Sandra just stares, unblinking, expressionless.

"I could sort of take his place, like." Frank wedges himself next to Sandra's stool so that their arms brush and flashes her what is probably meant to be a winning, knowing grin. He looks even more like a delinquent troll than usual. "Just for the evenin', unless you were to decide you liked me better. I bet Gerry and I could share, under the right circumstances."

Her eyes have narrowed to dangerous little slits. "Share what, exactly? – Think very hard before you answer that, Frank."

"Oh, c'mon, Sandra." She can't stand the way he elongates the first vowel in her name: _Saaandra_. He actually goes so far as to nudge her with his elbow. "You know ol' Frankie'll keep stum. Silent as the grave." He quaffs his pint for effect.

Sandra would like to put him _in_ the grave. "I don't know what you're on about," she replies firmly, and then knocks back the dregs of her drink and signals to the bartender.

"Gerry's me mate," Frank returns easily. "We don't have to keep secrets here, the three of us."

Sandra feels the colour finally draining from her face, but her voice remains even. "How many of those have you had to drink, Frank?"

"Wot, you denying it?" He chuckles, either amazingly impudent or amazingly stupid. "'E always 'as been a one for the ladies, Gerry 'as. I don't understand it, though. 'Ow does 'e do it? Wot's 'e got that I 'aven't?"

_Half a brain_, thinks Sandra. _Or at least I thought he did._ She has begun to feel numb, but she doesn't think it has much to do with the scotch.

She'd thought Gerry couldn't do anything that would shock her. She was wrong.

"Really, I can't see it. Tell me, Sandra: wot're you doin' knockin' 'im off? You oughta be way outta his league, bird like you."

She still stares, but she feels her jaw and mouth growing very tight. She has never cared for Frank, but now just being in his presence makes her feel in dire need of a shower or, better yet, an entire decontamination unit.

Of all the people in the world, Gerry has told Frank Patterson about their… _affair_, she supposes she has to call it, although the word makes her grit her teeth bitterly. Christ, that makes him even worse than Frank; and Sandra hasn't slept with Frank.

She is going to murder Gerry, and then she's going to dismember the corpse and burn it. That's far too kind, but she can't think of anything suitable.

"Speak of the devil," Frank says maliciously, and the part of Sandra's brain that isn't on fire with rage wonders if he's terminally stupid or just a mean bastard.

She gets an idea of what the expression on her face must be when Gerry blanches at the sight of her. "Everything all right here, gov?"

"Still call her that, do you? I bet she likes that. She'd be the type." Frank winks broadly at Gerry, who has instantly turned sick. Even as a cold chill races down his spine, Gerry feels himself break into a sweat.

Sandra slides off her stool and clutches her handbag. Her first step is unsteady, but then she finds her sea legs. She ignores Patterson entirely, focused on Gerry.

"Sandra?" he says urgently, panicking.

"I trusted you," she returns frigidly, and walks past him to the exit.

Gerry's first instinct is to go after her, but he wheels on Patterson. "What the hell have you been saying, you twat?"

"Only the truth, mate." Frank gulps his pint. "Didn't think she'd take it so 'ard. She's 'ardly the first, is she? You're legend, mate. The lovely detective superintendent is the latest in a long line of tarts taken in by the old Stand-Up charm. I don't know wot she sees in you, but she's a credit to you, Gerry, bird like her, at your age."

Unfortunately Frank won't get to finish his pint of Lion's Head this evening, because when Gerry punches him in the face – a hard right cross – and knocks out his right front incisor, Frank doubles over in pain and spills it. That, however, is the least of Frank's problems at the moment.

It's certainly the least of Gerry's problems.


	14. Shaken and Stirred

_And so, on with the show while I still have the interwebs. Thanks again, as always, for reading and for your lovely reviews._

**Chapter Fourteen: Shaken and Stirred**

Gerry bursts out of the pub and screeches to a halt, resembling a cartoon character as he looks left and right and back again, as if by doing so he can make one very furious detective superintendent materialize.

She can't have gone far, since her head start had amounted to about a minute – it hadn't taken Gerry longer than that to dispatch Patterson; his boxing days don't yet belong completely to the realm of memory, although it had been quite a while since Gerry had decked someone over a woman. That, and she's currently not too steady on her feet.

Unless she's jumped into her car and driven away. Shit, she wouldn't be that stupid, would she? Not rational, law-abiding, good girl Sandra Pullman.

A second mental voice chimes in, pointing out that Sandra hasn't been all that rational, law-abiding, or good (fan-freakin'-tastic, but not _good_) today, which is sexy as hell unless it means she's off slamming her car into a tree or mowing down an unwary OAP. Sandra does go through more cars – although, to be fair, Jack and Brian weren't exactly blameless there.

Sandra isn't driving, though, unless she's nicked some poor soak's car. The tightness in Gerry's chest eases marginally when he catches sight of the familiar blue convertible. Instantly he's stalking over and thumping on the driver's side window with the flat of his hand.

"Open up," he demands in the voice of command he has only risked using once before with the gov, on a memorable occasion when he'd suspected she was angry, reckless, and determined enough to make mincemeat out of the both of them. Come to think of it, that had to do with driving too.

_Bloody women drivers._

She turns to look at Gerry, leveling a scorching glare at him. "Sod. Off," she pronounces very clearly, biting out the disconnected words.

"Sandra, open this door, or I'll call the local plod and have you picked up for D.W. bloody I.," he threatens, his firm features grimly set. This was the look that had scared three daughters straight and countless perps – well, maybe less crooked.

"I'm not driving, am I?" She has to shout her scathing response to be heard through the closed door and thick window glass. "I'm sitting."

"Public intoxication, then," he hurls back.

"I'm in my car, you dickhead!"

Dickhead now, eh? That was more Brian's style than Sandra's. "On a public street," he points out.

She settles back in her seat, folds her arms, and closes her eyes. This is getting Gerry nowhere; time to switch tactics.

"I don't know what you think in that tiny female brain of yours, Sandra," he announces, because apparently provoking the lion in its cage seems like a grand idea at the moment, "but I've told Frank Patterson exactly bugger all about you, and I am not leavin' until you decide to act like a bleedin' adult and discuss it. So if you want to spend the night in your car, madame, that's your business, but I'm staying right here. How are you going to feel if I die of exposure, hey?"

"It's April," she snaps. "Besides, you've got more than enough body fat to keep you well warm." But she at least turns and looks at him.

Neither of them wants to be the first to break eye contact, so it's Mexican stand-off time, which gives Gerry leisure to think about a few potentially relevant points.

First of all, if Sandra truly thinks Gerry would've told Frank Patterson, or anyone, about their – she doesn't like the word relationship, does she? Their agreement, then – she evidently not only trusts him slightly less far than she could throw him, but she must not actually _know_ him all that well. That raises Gerry's hackles, but also leaves him feeling rather hollowed out inside.

Secondly, she has seemed irritated with him, which he calibrates by the amount of sneering she does in his direction, all week, so this can't be entirely about what Patterson does or doesn't know.

Sandra has by now realised that Gerry is truly bull-headed enough to lean against her car door all night if need be. She's fully as stubborn, but yearns to walk home and fall into a semi-drunken torpor that will pass for sleep; furthermore, she's begun to feel as mature as a recalcitrant child. She ought to know, since she deals with them five days a week.

Gerry's ears catch the unmistakable click of the locks being released, and he looks back to see Sandra staring straight ahead, expressionless. The situation doesn't look promising, but he'll take whatever opening he can get, so he immediately walks around and slings himself into the passenger seat before she can change her mind.

"If you didn't tell Patterson," she demands in a level, tense tone before Gerry can even speak, "then how the hell does he know about us?"

His shoulders sink as he sighs. His response is hardly going to placate her. "He saw us. He must've done."

Her eyes flare hugely and then go very small. "What do you mean, he saw us? Saw us where?"

"That night at the pub," Gerry admits, defeated. "With Strickland." She starts to protest and Gerry clarifies, "Downstairs, Sandra."

Two hot spots of colour appear on her high cheekbones as the blood leeches away from the rest of her face. "You've known that all this time, and you never said a word to me."

"No! I mean – look, I thought maybe – I glimpsed him for a split second out the corner of my eye, and then he vanished. I thought I'd imagined it. I wanted to think I'd imagined it."

"And you saw no reason to tell me." Her voice is dangerously quiet.

"Jesus, Sandra, I –" He breaks off and grabs her upper arm, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I wasn't sure, yeah? And what would you've done? What you're doing right now: Blamed me, the way you always blame me when something goes tits up!"

She bites the inside of her cheek, breathing hard, her eyes locked on his. She can't deny it. Gerry is so easy to blame, so easy to shout at. He's always so resilient. "I could've tried to protect my reputation, my career –"

"How, by insulting me in public? Wouldn't work, since you do that anyway. By giving me the sack?" he challenges.

They both know she wouldn't have done that, not without a real reason, and her eyes drop from his. Only for a second, but it feels like a victory, and he decides to press his advantage. "Look at me and tell me you think I told that prat anything about you, that you really think I'd do that, sober or pissed, and we won't have anything else to say to each other."

She looks sightlessly out into the darkness as she inhales and exhales deeply. Part of her wants to tell him that's exactly what she thinks, just so he'll piss off and she can go home and hibernate. But she couldn't hibernate forever.

"All right," she says shortly, gruffly. "All right, Gerry, I'm sorry." Her eyes dart toward his and hold there. "I _am_ sorry," she says a little more softly.

It's the second time she's ever said those words to him, so he doesn't take them lightly. It's a good thing Sandra doesn't really cock up more, because she's piss poor at the apologizing. Gerry thinks he must truly have entered his dotage, because he has every right to be angry at her – and he is – but she looks so uncomfortable that what he really wants to do is hug her and smooth her silky hair until she tells him to stop acting like a nonce.

Maybe his geriatric brain is just turning to mush because she makes him crazy. And speaking of crazy –

"You want to tell me what this has really been about, then?" he asks mildly.

Her brow wrinkles in a quick frown. "I told you –"

"Yeah, you told me." Gerry leans back leisurely and stretches, reassuring her that he won't move until he hears the truth. "But you've been walkin' around with your knickers in a twist for the better part of a week, so why don't you try again?"

Her glare could reverse global warming. "I don't know what you mean."

"Look, if you're tryin' to get rid of me, Sandra, just tell me to piss off. Don't use that pillock in there –" he jerks his thumb toward the pub, where he assumes Patterson is still looking for his tooth – "as an excuse, and don't play dumb, because you're terrible at it."

"You smug bastard!" she exclaims almost admiringly. "You really do have some sort of Don Juan complex, don't you? I mean, what would you do if I said to you right now, 'Oh, Gerry, I just can't _wait_ another minute, take me home with you'?"

He raises his eyebrows, nonplussed. "I'd check your temperature."

"And then?" she demands.

"I'd take you to hospital or home, depending on the result."

Her eyes are really quite beady when she narrows them like that, but hell, she's still gorgeous. "With you," she specifies. "To your flat."

Gerry is staring at her. "Yeah, sure, although we're about three minutes from yours, so I don't see why –"

She's shaking her head. "Christ, you're incredible. What would you do with me once you got me there?"

"What the hell are you on about, Sandra? Unless I've totally missed something over the last four months, you've got a rough idea of what I'd do, and you approve. At least you haven't been airin' any complaints to me." He glares right back, affronted.

"Oh, for God's sake, I'm not questioning your technique, you tosser," she snorts. "Just your moral fibre. Don't you think Jayne might have something to say about this little scenario?"

"What does _Jayne_ have to do with it?" Gerry screeches, exasperated and bewildered.

Sandra, too, has had enough. "I'm certainly no sainted virgin, Gerry, but I'm hardly going to have it off with you while your wife's in the next room! Or did you want her to join us?"

Maybe Sandra's a lot drunker than Gerry thought.

"Emily told me," she continues, very much on her dignity, "that Jayne has moved back in with you. I think you could've mentioned it."

Gerry can't respond. His jaw has come unhinged, and he's having difficulty screwing the components back together.

"Honestly, Gerry, I know this has been your pattern of behavior for forty years, but don't you think you owe it to Jayne, and to yourself, to stop screwing everything in sight and actually try to make your relationship work, like a grown-up? You're sixty-one!"

Gerry's mandibles are again in working order, and as he processes what Sandra has said, a slow but inexorable grin spreads over his face. "You're jealous!" he crows, delighted.

"You're ridiculous," she retorts, but her own face is flaming.

"No, you are." He turns and leans toward her across the gear shift. "You're jealous! That's why you've been in Ice Queen mode all week. This is bloody great!"

He looks so gleeful that it would be comical if Sandra weren't in the midst of a slow, humiliated burn. "You're talking complete shit, Gerald. I just expected more from you than –"

He can't contain himself any longer, and besides, he can't fully enjoy the moment with her looking so miserable. "I don't know what Em told you," he breaks in, "but Jayne is _not_ stayin' with me. She came to lunch on Sunday and then went home with Carole, because she hadn't told Caitlin or the other girls about the divorce."

"Then why the hell would Emily think she's living with you?"

"Shit, Sandra, I don't know, but I hope my girl's a better detective on the clock than she is off." He chuckles. "You're jealous. This is fantastic."

She has folded her arms again and is scowling. "I'm not, so stop gloating, you prize arsehole." She can't quite maintain the degree of real anger she had going before, though. "I wasn't impressed by your duplicity, that's all."

"My duplicity," he repeats benignly. "If that's what you want to call it, but I know a thing or two about jealous women."

"And I know seven ways to kill a man without using a weapon."

At that Gerry strives valiantly to rein in his glee and mirth, but the certain knowledge that Sandra Pullman was moved to jealousy over him makes Gerry want to howl with triumphant joy. No matter what she says, or doesn't say, Sandra isn't as emotionally uninvolved as she wants him, and probably herself, to think. It makes him feel magnanimous.

"You're the boss," he agrees cheerfully. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

She thinks it over for only a few seconds before handing him her car keys. Gerry makes no move to take them, and her forehead puckers, questioning, bruised and irritable.

"In my car," he specifies, and she rolls her eyes. "You don't expect me to leave it out here unprotected over _night_, do you?" Gerry demands, aghast, as they walk toward the Stag, and Sandra finds herself smothering a smile.

At least some things will never change.

_Note: By the way, if you're wondering why Emily is leading Sandra down the garden path, and whether she's doing it intentionally or not, all will eventually be revealed. :)_


	15. You Are What You Eat

**Chapter Fifteen: You Are What You Eat**

When Gerry closes his eyes and thinks of his first wife, he thinks of fresh boiled prawns, fat lovely chips, and candy floss – not suffocated in some container, but pink puffy clouds of spun-sugar delight, so sweet it made your teeth ache. Those were her favourite foods – their favourite foods – as they wandered along the pier at Southend or ambled along the waterfront in Brighton, the sort of day-out, train-home holidays they could barely afford in those days. They'd been children together, great, overgrown children, playing in the sand and eating deliciously unhealthy foods.

Too bad they hadn't also grown up together. Gerry can admit this to himself now, at the distance of thirty years. Carole had realised you couldn't always _be_ a child once you _had_ a child. Gerry had simply sought his playmates elsewhere. But prawns, cotton candy, over-salted chips: he retains a special fondness for those innocent, joyful flavours, just as he is especially fond of Carole – and she of him, although Gerry tried hard enough during their marriage to make her despise him, God knows. Carole has known Gerry longest, has watched the protracted, painful struggle to become an honest-to-Christ adult, and in many ways she knows him best of the three. They have the most in common, really: the proud, loud post-war working class upbringing; the cheerful language of the London streets; the uneasy transition from child to parent, and then from parent to grandparent.

Alison, on the other hand, had never ordered anything other than a salad when they ate a meal out in a restaurant – or in a hotel room, as he had to admit their first meals together had been shared. Alison ordered a salad, and then ate half of whatever was on Gerry's plate, and almost always saved room for dessert. _Ah, yes, salad days_, he thinks, his lips quirking. Poached pears, shaved parmesan and pecorino, delicately sautéed breasts of chicken or duck or quail, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, cashews – and the greens! The array had initially bewildered Gerry, who had been going through an almost exclusively carnivorous (in all senses of the term) period in the early eighties. He had escaped on his weekends with Paula to the markets and explored the world of lettuces, of sweet and bitter field greens, of arugula (Italian and American varieties) and endive. And then there were the other ingredients: radishes and sunchokes, thinly sliced fresh beets bursting with flavour, perfect avocados. Eventually Gerry had realised that he actually liked all those salads a lot more than Alison did; she ploughed through them to get to the summer pudding or banoffee pie or thick slice of sponge waiting at the other end once she'd dutifully run the green gamut.

At the time Alison had seemed like the anti-Carole, the precise antidote to the bitter dregs of his first (and ultimately longest) marriage. Light where Carole was dark, petite where Carole was tall, curvy where Carole was rail-thin, dancing and shagging merrily where Carole was paying bills on time and wiping runny noses. Salad to chips. But when it mattered, they were both practical, shoot-from-the-hip, no-nonsense women. Gerry had been desperate to escape the confines of domesticity, but always – and this was the Standing Paradox – yearning for the perfect family. So what had he done? Divorced Carole, married Alison, installed her in a cute little house, had another beautiful, highly-intelligent daughter, and set to work making salads on his off days.

Rinse and repeat. Second verse, same as the first.

He saw Jayne and knew he had to have her, exactly the same way she picked a main dish when he took her out to dinner: by peering at the plates of their fellow diners and exclaiming, "Ooh, Gerry, that looks nice!" She hated to eat in empty restaurants, where she couldn't compare her choices to someone else's and relish a gloat or a little dismayed moan. That was fine with Gerry, who loved to show her off. The bigger the crowd, the better. Here, at last, was the glamorous, flashy, merry blonde he'd been chasing all his life, with her long, thick hair – always perfectly arranged – her low-cut tops, tight little skirts and high heels. Jayne should've been his perfect culinary match. They adored the same types of lovingly, elaborately prepared favourites with a twist. She was a great audience, appreciative of all his endeavors (ahem). It should've worked, and it hadn't. Gerry had carried that around with him for a long time, that bewildered sense of loss and failure, the conviction that there really was something missing or wrong inside him. It had been hard to let Jayne go, and she never quite seemed to be truly gone.

Until exactly a week ago, when she'd made it abundantly clear that she wanted to come back, and his response had not been unmitigated rapture. Not even mitigated rapture, come to that.

Where in the blue bloody blazes had Emily gotten the idea that he and Jayne were getting back together? Four years ago, maybe. But now?

Now Gerry has exactly what – exactly who – he wants. Who he's wanted for a long time, without allowing himself to realise it. And he must have done something right, somewhere along the line, because he's reaping the benefits of what can only be amazing karma. In short, not only has he just awakened to find that the events of the last twelve hours (Frank and all – Gerry hopes that dental bill will be a bitch) weren't some sort of drug-induced fantasy, but he has awakened to this realisation in Sandra Pullman's bed.

That's not in her rule book.

And yet here he is, and here she is, and here they are, at 7:12 on Friday morning, cocooned in her dark grey duvet. Her hair is fanned out across the royal purple pillow case, pure gold in the morning light. She is breathing softly, sleeping as soundly as a child. He can feel every inhalation and exhalation as her rib cage rises and falls with her spine tucked firmly against his chest and her hand resting against his forearm where it's curved around her waist.

Twelve hours ago, Gerry had strongly suspected that Sandra would never let him near her again, let alone closer than he has ever been before, watching the sunlight splash over the bright walls and honey-coloured floor and send out soft tendrils to tickle at her t-shirt-clad form.

The very short drive to her flat the previous evening had passed in silence. Gerry, feeling mildly contrite and majorly unwilling to go back to his empty flat and squander what was left of a precious Thursday night, pulled into Sandra's drive and offered, "I'll come in and make us dinner."

She had hesitated, and then smirked smugly as she decided, "Yeah, why not?"

Five minutes later he understood the smirk. The woman had no bloody food in her flat. There were the remains of three or four take-aways in the fridge; a bit of cereal and a chocolate bar in a cupboard; assorted condiments and spices; a bottle of juice; and an unopened bag of rigatoni.

"Jesus, Sandra!" he'd exclaimed, hands on his hips as he surveyed the desolation, "What do you bleedin' do for food?"

Grinning wickedly and semi-drunkenly (he had already pressed a large glass of water into her hand, intent on rehydrating her), she'd pointed to the Indian menu magnetized to the refrigerator door. This situation clearly required intervention, but not tonight.

"Sod it, I'll buy you a curry," he'd offered instead.

They'd somehow reached a silent, mutual understanding that they'd done enough talking for one night – certainly enough about Patterson and Jayne and all that rubbish. Sandra had disappeared into her bedroom – the Dark Continent, as far as Gerry was concerned – and re-emerged in a soft blue track suit sort of a thing, feet bare, face scrubbed clean, and he'd thought, _This_ is new. He has seen Sandra like this before – once when she, Jack, and Brian had popped up on her doorstep at 7 a.m., and again last fall when she'd had the flu – but never on one of their Thursdays.

They'd watched crap telly as they ate their curries, speaking very little, and when Gerry had dropped his arm around her and lightly rubbed Sandra's knotted shoulders, she had curled into his side and rested against him. He tried very hard just to enjoy the moment without analyzing the quiet intimacy of it all. They'd stayed that way for a long time, long enough for Sandra to surprise Gerry by her stillness, until she had finally stood, held out her hand as she solemnly instructed "Come on," and led the way to her room.

Later, as she'd calmly gone about slipping on her night clothes and Gerry had tried awkwardly to figure out what to do with himself, how quickly she wanted him out on his arse and what to say, she'd glanced at him over her shoulder and nonchalantly offered, "You can stay if you want."

It hadn't exactly been the rolling out of the red carpet, but it was nevertheless a grand statement if you knew how to decipher Sandra's cool, prickly lexicon.

_Play it cool, Standing. Remember: you are the definition of cool. You invented cool_. "Yeah, all right. Don't feel much like drivin'."

He couldn't see her face as she switched on her alarm clock, but he would've sworn just by the set of her shoulders that she was again wearing that damned insufferable, irresistible smirk.

_Aww, c'mon, gov, give it a bleedin' rest_, he'd thought. She knew exactly how much he wanted her, wanted to be with her whenever she'd let him – How could she have thought he might want anyone else? He could barely handle her, although he was more than happy to try. _Throw an old dog a bone._

He'd wondered if she had developed mind-reading capabilities as she leaned over and gently kissed him good-night before tucking herself into his side. Her cool lips tasted of minty toothpaste and Gerry was so chuffed at the idea of the two of them actually spending a whole night together in the same bed that he suddenly felt like the village maiden pining over the dashing city slicker. Christ, if word of this got out, it would _massacre_ his reputation.

There is a framed photo beside the bed, a temple on the banks of a river, its domes sparkling golden and purple under a brooding sky shot through with reds and oranges. _India_, he thinks. She has never told him anything about her trip. Her mother had died and it had never seemed quite the right time to launch into, "So, Sandra, how was your holiday?" But maybe he should ask. He would like to know, and she might even like to tell him.

7:13. Her alarm will sound in two minutes. Gerry can't resist. His palm glides over her bare arm, tickling lightly, and he shifts so he can press his lips to the back of her elegant neck. He murmurs her name in her ear, sing-song, until she stirs, wriggling away from his touch and slapping at his chest hard enough to leave a stinging handprint.

"Piss _off_," she grouses gruffly, a malcontent, unwilling to be bothered – a real class-A, take-no-prisoners bitch.

Gerry feels his face split into a maniacal grin. _Jesus Christ juggling plates, Sandra, I love you, _he admits to himself. "Good morning to you too, sunshine," he retorts cheerfully to her, smacking her on the bum and then smoothly leaping out of the bed and well beyond her reach. She can kill him later, but she's not moving quickly enough now.

If they were at his flat he'd make her something fabulous for breakfast – poached eggs and spinach, a frittata, French toast soufflé – but as they're at hers, she'll have to settle for black coffee and toast made with not-too-terribly-moldy bread. He still whistles as he goes about making it, though. He's 61 years old, paunchy, gradually balding, a drinking and smoking gambling addict with three ex-wives, an unhealthy interest in banging up villains, and the elocution of a Dickensian chimney-sweep, but by God, he's a man in love. This morning it no longer seems impossible to admit it, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts. He doesn't know how long he has loved Sandra; he just knows that he does love her, as surely as he knows his own name and all the lyrics to his favourite Bad Faith song and the starting line-up for Chelsea.

Sandra broke three of her four cardinal rules last night: she showed she cared (albeit unwillingly); she let Gerry into the sanctum sanctorum; and she invited him to spend the night. So it's no wonder that things feel different today.

Better.

He just needs to work on this whole silly "Thursdays" thing. Fortunately he knows just how to do that. The way to this woman's heart is through her stomach, as the last six months – maybe the last eight years – have illustrated. He just needs to ply her with fabulous food until she – Well, what, exactly? Falls head-over-heels in love with him? Unlikely in the extreme.

Until she lets him in a bit more. He'd settle for that quite happily. Sandra isn't the head-over-heels type, but a slight stumble would do Gerry nicely.

So what should he prepare for her? She loves exotic flavour combinations, sweet and bitter, spicy and sugared, blends that stretch the palate and tease the taste buds. Foods that suit her multi-layered personality. But what is her very favourite food, the taste she'd choose to take on her tongue if she knew it was going to be her last?

He wants to make the perfect thing, the one that will turn the key in the lock, although he knows it may sound a bit foolish. Thai drunken noodle, devastatingly spicy, with succulent, crispy duck? A sweet, savory eggplant and sweet potato curry/ handmade ravioli, as soft and white as little pillows, stuffed with poached pears and blue cheese?

_Maybe_, he thinks, pouring coffee and buttering toast. All of the above, and none of the above. They'll work their way through those and decide where to go from there. Because Gerry is pretty sure that Sandra, like him, is on a quest. She still hasn't met her favourite food, the very best thing she'll ever eat.

Gerry will just have to keep experimenting until he hits upon the right thing, from soup to nuts and everything in between. He doesn't have any particular plans for the next twenty or thirty years; so he might as well spend them cooking for someone he loves.

He grins even as he shakes his head at his own fanciful thoughts. _It's just another Friday_, he tells himself sternly. _There's_ _work to be done. Get back to the business at hand and quit rhapsodizing like a ponce._

But he's still grinning. "Sandra," he calls loudly to be heard over the whirr of her hairdryer, "breakfast is ready."


	16. Cigarettes and Coffee

_Author's note: This chapter is for the oofoof, because she accidentally dared me lo, these many moons ago, by saying, "I hope you're not going to …" That's like waving a red flag in front of a bull, honey. Indulge me while, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, I dive into one of the most hackneyed fanfiction conventions around. _

**Cigarettes and Coffee**

The genie granting his requests has taken a malevolent turn. This is, technically, precisely what Gerry had wished for: he's spending the weekend with Sandra. Apparently Gerry's genie needs him to be really, really specific, though, because this is about as far as conceivably possible from what he'd had in mind. It's the letter of the law, so to speak, but definitely not the spirit.

"More coffee?"

He looks up at the sound of Jack's voice and wonders how long he's been morosely regarding the scorched liquid in his paper cup. "I'll get it," he offers, and hoists himself up from the hard plastic chair to strike off down the corridor. Anything is better than just sitting there and being bloody useless.

What's keeping them so long? The doctors and technicians are taking their sweet time with the MRI, aren't they? They've already established that her skull isn't fractured, and the less sensitive CT scan showed nothing alarming, so Gerry assumes the medical staff members are getting antsy. He certainly is.

Scratch that. He's going around the bleedin' bend.

Especially since it's entirely his stupid fault that Sandra is here in the first place.

He can't stop replaying the scene over and over in his mind, an endless cinematic loop of stomach-wrenching horror.

It had been such a normal Friday. Well, no, not exactly. Much better than normal, in fact. After they'd eaten their hot buttered toast and drunk strong black coffee, Gerry had dropped Sandra at her car, so she'd arrived at the office less than two minutes behind him – and yet when he'd seen her walk through the door, all fresh and cool and collected, and she'd looked right at him and offered a small, warm smile, Gerry's heart had skipped a beat.

If he told Sandra, she'd undoubtedly say he should make an appointment with Jack's cardiologist.

Late that afternoon the two of them had set out to visit a potential witness, or possibly a suspect – the line was usually a fine one – who lived on a council estate way out in the easternmost reaches of London. Gerry had insisted on driving, as he often did, or tried to do, and had secretly been delighted when Sandra had teased, "Ah, after all this time I finally know what it is – the real reason you always want to drive." He'd looked inquiringly at her as she buckled her safety belt, and she had continued, "It's nothing at all to do with bloody women drivers. It's cos I practically have to sit in your lap in this old pile of metal."

She wasn't entirely off base. In recognition, he'd leaned over and kissed her cheek right there in the police car park, and she hadn't even slapped his face.

He was waiting for an opportune moment to broach the subject of letting him cook a meal for her over the weekend. He didn't want to crowd her or pressure her, but it was a matter of common sense: how long would it take him just to get through the poultry selections in his mental cookbook if she only gave him one shot a week?

That and, you know, he couldn't imagine how he'd fill the sixty-four desolate hours of the weekend if he couldn't see her between Friday evening and Monday morning. Doing the laundry and the shopping? Watching football? What the hell was it he usually did with himself, anyway?

Marie Lambert was suffering from advanced dementia and was accordingly less than helpful. Gerry and Sandra had drunk tea and talked to her granddaughter, and fifteen minutes later Gerry was tromping down the four flights of unlovely concrete stairs behind the gov, wondering if she'd prefer skate or scallops. His pace slowed as he thought, so he was still several stairs up when Sandra suddenly bellowed "Oi!" and took off at a dead run, tossing her handbag recklessly over her shoulder like a bride tossing a bouquet. Gerry's eye went first to the bag, as he lunged to catch it; then, incongruously, to a bright red spray-painted smear of indecipherable tagging on the scarred tile wall; and finally to what had propelled Sandra into action: three hoodie-wearing little yobs who had just set about stripping the Stag.

"Police!" she shouted sternly, her boot heels pounding against the pavement as she ran toward them. Hers were a set of movements so fluid they could've been choreographed, so familiar and efficient that Gerry felt himself smiling as she charged. The two taller kids immediately turned tail and fled as fast as their spindly legs could carry them, but the third – the smallest, and likely the youngest – hesitated, as if wondering what the odds were that he could take a stand and impress his mates.

The odds weren't good, Gerry thought with a tiny grin as he jogged after Sandra, trying not to look too much like her errand boy or lap dog.

And that's when the odds suddenly, unspectacularly changed.

As she lunged for the kid's jacket, Sandra's foot slipped on something – a bit of oil, probably – and she began to fall backwards. She would've ended up with nothing worse than a bruised bum, but the little punk wannabe, his eyes so wide with terror that even at this distance Gerry could see the whites, took advantage of Sandra's momentum to shove her as hard as his scrawny little body could manage.

It was hard enough. Gerry heard the sickening crack as the back of her skull collided with the driver's side window, arresting her movement for a couple of seconds before she slumped against the tyre.

"Sandra!" Gerry shouted as he took off after the kid, police training getting the better of his instinct, which was to go straight to her. "Gov?"

His only response other than his own harsh breathing and the slapping of his shoes on the pavement was total silence, and when he looked back to see that Sandra was completely motionless, Gerry immediately changed direction. Sod the little villain.

"Sandra!" He spoke sharply, praying his voice would reach her, but his calloused fingertips were oh-so-gentle as he touched her jaw. There was a thin trickle of blood on her cheek, and for a second he thought she'd somehow been cut by the glass, but almost as quickly he realized her nose was bleeding. When he saw the matching crimson trail coming from her ear, he swore violently, fighting a rising tide of panic. His hand shook as he frantically dug for his mobile and dialed one-handed, his other hand resting on her shoulder. He knew she couldn't feel his touch, but he could at least feel her, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It was minimally reassuring, which was better than nothing.

And that was – he glances at his watch – almost six and a half hours ago.

Even for Gerry, attempting not to think for six and a half bleedin' hours requires a really concerted, exhausting effort; but he absolutely can't allow himself to consider the possibility that Sandra is seriously injured, that she might not ever open those startlingly blue eyes again – and that even if she does, the part of her that makes her Sandra might be gone, stolen from her.

Stolen from him, he thinks, even as he despises himself for being so selfish.

Gerry trudges back down the corridor, squinting against the too-bright fluorescent glow, to hand the second coffee to Jack. They've been swilling the stuff for so long that Gerry's taste buds have mercifully gone numb. Then, maybe the sixty-seven cigarettes he's smoked have something to do with that.

Gerry's phone vibrates in his pocket and he answers without even looking at the display. "Brian, mate, one of us'll call you the second we know anything," he mutters. "We're not supposed to be usin' our mobiles, yeah?"

Since Esther carted Brian away at half eight, he's rung up three times. His wife should've just let him stay.

"Dad, it's Paula. Emily rang me. So you're still at hospital? My shift's just ended, so I thought I'd drop by on my way home, yeah?"

"Mr. Halford?" A quietly smiling duty nurse approaches. "Ms. Pullman is back in her room now. Visiting hours end soon, but you can sit with her until the doctor comes, if you like. Only one of you," she specifies.

Gerry swallows his bitterness and gestures for Jack to precede him. He'd been a little surprised – not unpleasantly – when Jack had immediately informed the administrative staff that yes, he was Sandra's relative. Gerry supposes the hospital has no legal obligation to keep two friends and colleagues informed of a patient's condition, even if those two friends are worried sick and struggling valiantly not to show it in order to keep one another's spirits up.

Gerry hovers in the hallway – Jack has somehow gotten Sandra into a private room, not on a ward – until a briskly striding doctor appears, and then crowds in the doorway behind him.

"The brain scan was clear," the doctor announces brusquely but not unkindly. "No swelling, no bleeding. Now it's a waiting game. I'm sorry I can't tell you more. If your, ah –" He pauses, looking questioningly at Jack, whose face is set as grimly as Gerry has ever seen it.

"Niece," Jack supplies, his lips barely moving.

"If your niece hasn't improved by morning, we'll do a more extensive battery of tests to assess her condition."

Jack mutters his thanks to the doctor, and once the third man has left, Gerry pipes up, "Scan's clear – that's good, innit?"

The two of them dully regard one another, and Gerry shoves his hands into his pockets.

"D'you want to sit with her?" Jack asks, and Gerry answers with a single nod. "I'll phone Brian."

Gerry stands at the foot of the narrow bed for a few minutes, sort of acclimating himself to the idea of looking at her. She's so still. It's unnerving. Serene, tranquil – Sandra Pullman? Not on your life. Even sleeping she has a – hell, a presence, an energy.

But now she's so still.

"All right, gov," he tries, "time to wake up and give me a proper bollocking. Go on, lay into me; I deserve it."

It's not entirely a trick of the light, he knows, that makes her skin look so sallow and fragile, but he tells himself it's nothing more. It makes it easier for him to draw the single chair to the bedside, avoiding the cords snaking out from the various monitors, and take her left hand.

She has elegant hands and beautiful nails, always glossy and just so. He bends his head over that hand, lightly tracing the symmetrical arches of her fingernails and feeling the steady pulse at her wrist.

'You're right, you know," he says suddenly, as if she'd spoken. "Car's a pile of shit. I'll sell the bleedin' thing off for scrap metal if you'll just open your eyes and glare at me."

Gerry squeezes her hand, faintly hoping for an answering squeeze. He doesn't give a shit about the car, not in comparison to the woman lying in this bed.

"That was a bloody stupid thing to do, Sandra. Three of them, one of you – and a useless old git like me. You're not sodding Superwoman."

Still nothing. He takes a deep breath and blinks. His eyes are watering; those aren't tears.

"This is extreme," he manages, desperately making a joke. "If you didn't want me hangin' around at the weekend, all you had to do was say."

He becomes aware of someone watching through the window in the door, and turns to see Paula. She offers a slight, sympathetic smile.

As Gerry passes out of Sandra's room, Jack wordlessly passes in.

"Hi, Dad," Paula says with that same slight smile that's so like her mother's. "No change?"

"Nope." He shoves his hands into his pockets again and raises his eyebrows. "Want to nip outside? Your old dad's dying for a fag."

For once Paula doesn't protest or scold, but simply follows Gerry downstairs and out into the overcast evening. They stand in silence through Gerry's first cigarette. As he lights his second she asks, "So, how are you holding up?"

He shoots her a quizzical look. "Better than the guv'nor. She's the one in the bed, if you hadn't noticed."

"_Dad_," she chides, linking her arm through his. She peers earnestly up into his face for so long that Gerry finally demands, "What?"

Paula hesitates. "Does Sandra know how much you – I mean, does she know that you're –" She breaks off as her father's expression changes and becomes carefully blank. "I thought you might like some company, that's all," she back-pedals.

He affectionately rubs her shoulders. "You need to be getting home. I know you've come off a long shift. Where's Gerry Junior?"

"With Mum." She hugs him fiercely and suddenly. "Let me know if I can do anything, or if, you know, you have any medical questions or… anything."

Odd, Gerry thinks as he rides the elevator up. Very sweet, but odd.

"Ah, there you are!" Jack exclaims boisterously when Gerry peeks into Sandra's room, and Gerry realizes that two pairs of blue eyes are trained on him.

"Sandra!" he exclaims, and her forehead immediately creases in a frown.

"Jesus, Gerry, keep it down. My head is splitting."

"Sandra," he repeats softly, grinning with delight. "You're awake."

She smiles crookedly, and all he wants is to gather her in his arms and surround her with cotton wool. She'd leap out of the bed and strangle him if he tried, even if she had two broken legs. She does hold her hand out, though, and he folds it in both of his, mentally sending Jack to Coventry. "I'm so sorry."

She frowns again. "Whatever for?" she demands.

"Are you takin' the piss? You're lyin' here because of me, because of my stupid car! If I weren't always going on about it, you wouldn't have –"

"I would've done the exact same thing if it had been a VW Golf, Gerry. Those jumped-up little sods were breaking the law," she interrupts, "and we do happen to be the police. Well, I am, anyway." Her voice is rough and scratchy, and Jack hands her a cup of water with a straw. She drinks and then smirks tiredly at both of them. "Besides, Gerry, my car's a hell of a lot nicer than yours, so imagine what might've happened if I'd been the one driving."

Jack laughs, breaking off to ask, "Where is that bloody doctor?"

"Could you find him?" Sandra asks hopefully. "I want to go home."

"Your wish is my command." Jack's smile before he pops out into the hall is so warmly affectionate that it fills Sandra with the tide of relief these two men are now riding all because of her, and she feels very, very grateful. Gratitude, at least, is safe.

"Sit." Her eyes drift closed as she tugs at their joined hands, drawing Gerry toward the chair. When he presses the back of her hand to his lips, she smiles slightly.

"Police or not, that was a bloody stupid thing to have done, Sandra," Gerry scolds fiercely. "What do you think you are, a one-woman army?"

Her eyes drift open and she smiles tiredly, self-satisfied. "I'm the guv'nor."

"Don't ever do that again," he continues in the same tone, squeezing her fingers until he realizes his stranglehold on her digits has to be approaching the threshold of pain.

She'd roll her eyes if her head didn't hurt so bloody badly; Gerry understands that clearly enough. "I didn't plan to do it the first time," she retorts.

"You scared the hell out of me, Sandra." The intensity of his tone yanks her gaze to his, and her eyes widen slightly. They stare at one another until the doctor bursts into the room, Jack hot on his trainer-encased heels.

Predictably, the doctor immediately puts the kibosh on Sandra's proposal that he turn her loose. "If everything checks out in the morning, Miss Pullman –"

"Detective Superintendent," she puts in frostily, and Gerry smothers a smile. He realizes he's still clutching her fingers, and sets about untangling his from hers as subtly as possible.

"Detective Superintendent," the doctor acknowledges in the placating tone that always sets Sandra's teeth on edge. "As I was saying, if everything looks good, you can leave tomorrow. Around lunchtime," he specifies, staving off the inevitable question.

Sandra isn't thrilled, but she looks too pained and exhausted to put up a fight. Jack and Gerry say their good-nights and Gerry adds, "Give me a bell, yeah, and I'll come get you tomorrow afternoon."

She hesitates. "If you want to, I suppose," she finally mutters grudgingly. Mindful of Jack's eyes on him, Gerry mumbles something about it being the least he can do.

Jack and Gerry ride the elevator down to the ground floor in silence. Jack isn't intentionally avoiding looking at him, is he? It's just Gerry's paranoid imagination.

He lights another cigarette as soon as they hit the cool evening air. This is a four-pack day if ever he's had one. He doesn't want to see any more wretched hospital coffee for the foreseeable future, though.

As if reading his mind, Jack catches Gerry's eye and raises an eyebrow. The older man's expression is unreadable as he takes Gerry's arm. "We can still make last orders if we hurry," Jack says neutrally. "Buy you a pint."

_More author's notes: Right, so, I'm home now and promise to update as quickly as possible, provided you all let me know someone is still reading! I apologize for the long lag between chapters, but it turns out internet connections can still be a bit dodgy in the eastern Balkans ;)_


	17. Too Many Cooks

**Too Many Cooks**

1.

"I meant flowers, Brian, or a nice plant!" Esther exclaims, exasperated, as she slices the mushrooms.

Her husband gestures toward the small black pot he grips firmly in one hand. "This is a nice plant."

"A lily," Esther continues, tossing the mushrooms into the large pot simmering on the stove, "or a fern. Not a cactus."

"It's a blooming cactus," Brian retorts calmly, examining the tiny, bright orange flowers amidst the razor-sharp spines. "Come now, love: does Sandra really strike you as the lily type?" he scoffs. "She'll love this," he pronounces confidently, and Esther just shakes her head.

"Since you ate the entire jar of olives," she says, "you can just get right back on your bike and go to the market and get some more. And don't even think about getting distracted and vanishing for three hours if you want to come with me to deliver this to Sandra!"

Meanwhile Jack is placing a glass of water on the end table beside Sandra's sofa, and she is eyeing it and muttering, "Don't suppose you'd get me something stronger?"

"Not on your life," he replies succinctly, straightening. "Go on and take one of the tablets now."

Jack watches Sandra swallow the pain medication as if she's a recalcitrant child, and then he actually pats her hand. "Are you sure you don't need anything else? A snack or some soup or –"

She waves him away with her free hand, but she's smiling. "Honestly, Jack, I'm fine. I'm just going to lie here and watch crap telly and sleep a little." She draws the light blanket that he has placed neatly at her feet up to her waist, as if in confirmation of the words. "Thanks for bringing me home."

"Any time," Jack says, heading reluctantly toward the door to give her some privacy. "And by 'any time' I mean never again. You're too young to be popping in and out of hospital."

"I'm not," she points out wryly.

"You bloody well are, and so am I."

At that precise instant, Gerry is himself in hospital – or at least at hospital. He stands just inside the room that is supposed to be Sandra's, staring at the very empty, very neatly made bed and schooling himself to think that the spike of panic that has his pulse thumping rapidly is completely bleedin' ridiculous. The tell-tale squeak of rubber-soled shoes has him spinning rapidly. "The woman who was in this room," he demands, "Sandra Pullman. Where is she?"

The young brunette blinks at him, doe-eyed. "Ah, well, she's not here, sir."

"I can see that, can't I? Where is she?"

"Home, I imagine. She was discharged about an hour ago."

Gerry mutters some sort of thank-you to the nurse and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks back at the pristine bed, thinking, _Typical bloody Sandra_. The stubborn, impossible woman would rather call a cab than request the smallest favour from a friend, even though Gerry had already volunteered. He automatically pulls his mobile from his pocket and dials the familiar number.

An equally familiar voice, but the wrong voice, answers. "You with Sandra, then?" Gerry asks, and then winces at how abrupt he sounds.

"For the moment. I've got her home and settled and was just dismissed."

Gerry frowns, unable to alter the direction of his thoughts. Had Jack just beaten him to the punch, or had Sandra actually rung up and asked him to pick her up? And in either case, why, when they both knew Gerry was planning to do it himself?

_All right, Gerald, don't act like a complete idiot, for once. Sandra's home and she's fine_. "Well then, no need for me to be hangin' around the hospital, is there?"

"Not unless you're on the pull with the nurses," Jack retorts cheerfully.

"Right, then. See you Monday, mate. Best to the gov."

Sandra could refuse his offer of a ride, Gerry thinks, pivoting and striding toward the exit, but there's one thing she wouldn't refuse. The thing he did best.

Food, of course.

2.

He'd taken his time gathering ingredients for the perfect meal: a gorgeous marbled pork tenderloin, the tenderest organic greens, ripe plums for the sauce – those had taken some searching, and as he bumps the driver's side door of the Stag closed with her hip, he allows himself a self-congratulatory smile – and beautiful golden potatoes, ideal for roasting. No wine tonight, but he'd snagged a bottle of sparkling grape juice and, for dessert, a small box of those handmade dark chocolates Sandra likes so much – worth their weight in gold, if the price is any indication.

After approximately three minutes of mature deliberation he'd decided to cart the whole kit and caboodle over to Sandra's flat and prepare the meal there. That Aga had the look of virgin territory if ever Gerry Standing had met an untouched kitchen appliance. The poor thing, he thinks now, chuckling to himself. Admittedly the circumstances aren't quite what he'd envisioned, but he is finally going to prepare a meal for Sandra Pullman.

He presses the buzzer and waits, whistling jauntily to himself. He barely has time to register that the footsteps coming toward the door are far too heavy to belong to Sandra before the chain is drawn back and he finds himself face to face with Brian.

"Looks like we had the same idea," the former D.I. greets him cheerfully around the apple slice he's munching. "We've beat you to it, though." And then, shouting over his shoulder, "It's Gerry, Sandra. He's brought –"

"The shopping," Gerry grumbles through gritted teeth, stepping around Brian and plodding toward the kitchen.

Esther is creating a small mound of cheese cubes to accompany the remaining apple slices. "Hello, Gerry," she says neutrally, glancing up from her tasks. "I brought a big pot of spaghetti Bolognese that Sandra can just head up later. She didn't mention you were coming by."

"She didn't know." Gerry unceremoniously shoves both full carrier bags into the refrigerator, and suddenly his father's voice fills his head. _We can't all be 'andsome, son, but we can all be polite_. "That smells delicious, Esther. Maybe we should trade recipes," he says more graciously.

She smiles. Gerry knows perfectly well how firm Esther can be, but at the moment her eyes are soft. "Very fresh garlic," she emphasizes, "and the right kind of olives. That's the secret."

Sandra is sitting at the end of the sofa, her feet drawn up on the wide cushion and a deep purple throw tossed haphazardly across her lap. "First Rain Man, now Moe," she greets him sharply. "Where's Larry?"

"You'd know better than I would." She sounded grumpy, caustic even, but the ghost of a smile flits across Sandra's lips, and Gerry would swear she's struggling not to look pleased. He settles himself at the opposite end of the sofa. "I brought something to make for your tea, but Esther's got that sorted."

Sandra gestures toward the end table. "Brian brought me a cactus," she says, and now she is certainly pleased. "Maybe I'll manage to keep it alive – for a few months, anyway. Pretty, isn't it?"

Gerry can't help but grin. Brian, the anorak, has his odd moments of penetrating insight. "Suits you to a tee," Gerry pronounces, looking at the bright blooms and sharp armour the little plant wears simultaneously.

"Should I be offended?" she returns as Brian brings her the plate of fruit and cheese, having eaten only about one third of its contents himself. Over her husband's shoulder, Esther peeps in from the kitchen.

"Brian, come and put the kettle on."

"Why can't Gerry do it while I talk to Sandra?" Brian protests, but the look he receives from his wife has him back on his feet in a trice.

"Tryin' to give us a bit of quiet," Gerry murmurs with a smirk, causing Sandra to wince. He'd told himself he wasn't going to bring it up, but – "Why'd you ring Jack to pick you up? You knew I was coming for you."

She shrugs and glances away. "I hate hospitals, especially when I'm in 'em. The doctor released me early, and Jack lives closer."

"By five minutes," Gerry points out, even as he tells himself to drop it.

"Five minutes is five minutes." She is looking down at her fingers, though, toying with the fringe on the blanket.

He covers her busy fingers with his. "Sandra –"

He's interrupted by the door buzzer. "What is this place, Clapham bleedin' Junction?"

Jack has brought Sandra her favourite curry from her favourite take-away, along with a bottle of scotch from his private collection. "For when you're better," he specifies. "Off the tablets."

In five minutes more they're all gathered in the living room, snacking and drinking tea, and Sandra looks so pleased and appreciative that Gerry feels like the immature tosser she's always accusing him of being. Because, no matter how assiduously he tries to convince himself he isn't, he's simmering in his very own personal frothing broth of jealousy, directed at Brian and even Esther and especially Jack. Jack, whom Sandra called the one time she'd admit to needing something. Jack, who no doubt cared very much for Sandra, but who could never see her the way Gerry did, or love her the way Gerry did. Shouldn't that give Gerry some sort of precedence, even if he hasn't known Sandra for more than half her life?

_Perhaps, Gerald_, another voice, this one snide, cuts in, _if he knew you loved her_.

_If _she_ knew_.

He looks over at the object of his affections, who is currently gobbling up morsels of cheddar and listening to Brian natter about cactus care. Her face is pale, her eyes so shadowed by fatigue that they look as if they're bruised, her body tucked into one of those dark velour track suits that should make her look at home on a council estate. Gerry wonders how the hell he worked shoulder to shoulder with her for so long without realizing how incredibly beautiful she was. Never, except with his daughters, has Gerry had such a strong desire to take care of someone he loves. Never has he met anyone less in need of his tender ministrations. Come to that, never has he met a woman less interested in being loved by him.

Couldn't she just sodding humour him?

"I'll shove off," Jack says after about half an hour. "Will we see you Monday?"

"Obviously," Sandra replies calmly. "D'you think I'm going to stay here and watch _Loose Women _and _Top Gear_ repeats, or what?"

"Pity _East Enders_ is on in the evening," Jack teases.

"Corrie," Brian puts in, grinning ghoulishly.

"I'll unpack the shopping so you know precisely what's rotting in your fridge, and I'll be on me way too." While the others are putting on their coats, Gerry accordingly busies himself in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of their collective departure. He realizes Sandra is hovering in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb with her arms folded, a good thirty seconds before she speaks, but he continues putting away the fruit and veg.

"I don't think I've ever had this much food in my flat at one time." She places her mug in the sink and stands studying the top of Gerry's balding head as he kneels on the tile floor. "It was nice of you to go to so much trouble. You could take those things with you, as I doubt I'm going to be making –"

"Roasted pork tenderloin with plum sauce," he supplies, and looks up to catch the pained, wistful expression on her face.

"That sounds great."

"It is," he assures none too gently, getting to his feet and closing the refrigerator door with an emphatic rattle. "Maybe another time."

She hasn't moved, so he can't just walk out of the kitchen. "Do you need something?" he prods.

Startled, she stands up very straight. "Of course not," she says instantly, and he mentally echoes, Of course not. "But –" She bites her lip on an uncharacteristic note of indecision, seeking his eyes. "If you don't have plans, you could stay and help me eat some of this food – and I still haven't watched The Philadelphia Story since you three gave it to me last year."

He wants to grab her in his arms and hug her until she can't breathe, but that would be very uncool. He raises an eyebrow instead. "Yeah?"

Sandra smiles slightly. "Yeah."

They watch the film first, and as Hepburn and Grant and Stewart cavort on screen in glorious black and white, Sandra abruptly unfolds her blanket, turns to recline against Gerry's chest, and spreads the blanket over both of them. At a loss, Gerry chuckles.

"What?" she asks, since there's a lull in the onscreen antics.

"If all our suspects were as impossible to understand as you are, UCOS would never solve a case."

She tilts her head back to look at him. "Stick to your villains, Gerry," she advises with a grin. "You don't need to understand me."

He runs his hands down her arms, unspeakably grateful to have her here and warm and conscious, and tosses a few words of gratitude up toward that God he might have to start believing in if things keep going his way. "Why didn't you want me to pick you up today?"

_Oh, yeah, way to go, you moron. Ruin the best moment you've been given all day_.

She stiffens. "What, you jealous of Jack now?"

"You know what? Yeah." His fingers close firmly around her shoulders to prevent her from sitting up. "I know you don't _need_ me for anything, Sandra, and I know it's not _Thursday_, but –"

She is still, not actively trying to pull away, but rigid as he finally lets himself hold her the way he's wanted to since yesterday, folding his arms across her body and crushing her to him with surprising strength.

"If you'd been really hurt," he babbles rather incoherently. "If something happened to you – Sandra, I –"

She manages to put enough distance between them to turn and meet his eyes, and she looks so solemn that it freezes the words on his tongue.

"I'm fine." Her tone is unexpectedly gentle. "You know how hard my head is, Gerald." Her expression transforms into something wicked and she actually winks. "Almost as hard as my heart."

"Bitch," he laughs despite himself, admiringly, and she asks, "Pasta or curry?"

He wonders if they'll ever spend a normal evening together, watching telly and deciding what to have for tea, when she isn't wrecked and grieving or infuriated or concussed. Probably not, but he'll take what he can get.

"Let me just see if I've got this, yeah?" Gerry runs his fingers through Sandra's hair, massaging her scalp but avoiding the sore spots, as he considers. "You didn't want me comin' round, but seein' as I'm here, you don't want me to leave."

He feels rather than hears her chuckle. "Something like that," she confirms.

"The old Standing charm," he exults gleefully. "It's worked all me life."

"That's not charm, you tosser," she retorts. "It's erosion."

"Potato, po-tah-to," he responds airily. "Am I or am I not sittin' here with a gorgeous, brilliant blonde who also happens to be significantly younger than I am?"

"Who also outranks you significantly."

"Yeah, like I was sayin': result."

She laughs helplessly, and Gerry silently vows never to be jealous of Jack again.

_A/N: Thanks for hanging in there, dear readers. I love to hear what you think._


	18. Ladies Who Lunch

**Ladies Who Lunch**

1.

"I'm speechless with horror."

She snorts. "You've never been speechless in your life."

"You're a barbarian."

"You're a pillock. Hand me the naan; it's behind the milk."

It's just after 10:00 Sunday morning, and Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman is preparing her breakfast, which involves reheating a large serving of rice swimming in violently red chicken curry.

"Reheated rice produces bacteria."

"It hasn't killed me in the last thirty-five years, Gerry. Forgive me if I'm not crippled by self-doubt."

"You're going to drink coffee with it?" he squawks, wide-eyed.

She levels a quelling look at him. "It's breakfast, isn't it? Do you want tea?" And then, answering herself, "You can make it if you do."

"Why won't you just let me cook you a real breakfast?" he asks, pouring himself a coffee.

"Because I'm having this."

Gerry decides not to argue too strenuously, especially given that the woman standing in front of him scooping potentially toxic rice into a bowl is freshly showered, with wet hair and bare feet, clad only in a fluffy red robe. These things tend to distract him.

"How's the head?"

She grins sunnily. "Fine. No tablets."

He can't resist cupping her face in his hands and kissing that smart mouth, just because he can. As she leans into him and twines her arms around his neck, he reflects that he's having the best weekend he's had in a very, very long time, even including the hours of hospital waiting agony.

"I'm so nice that I'll let you make yourself whatever you want," she says, "while I dry my hair. Just don't touch my curry."

"Don't." He catches her around the waist, his other hand twisting in the damp strands that are already beginning to curl. "Leave it like this."

"It looks ridiculous."

"It's beautiful just the way it is."

She emits a distinctly unrefined snort of laughter. "Oh, you charmer. I bet lines like that really worked when you were about twenty-two."

"I did get a fair bit of mileage out of 'em," he admits, still toying with her hair. "Come on, leave it," he coaxes. "I'll make you lunch."

"You'd make me lunch anyway." She hesitates, though, considering. "The pork thing with the plum sauce?"

"The pork thing," he assures her, and she shrugs.

"I don't have to go out in public anyway," she concedes.

Gerry does, though, although he has completely forgotten. Understandable, given that he's having the Best Weekend Ever.

Last night after _The Philadelphia Story_ and two other films, during which they'd eaten an odd but enjoyable meal of spag bol and curry, Gerry had dutifully begun making noises about leaving and letting Sandra get to sleep, and she'd shrugged and casually tossed off the two sweetest words in the English language: "Just stay."

_Whither, o rule book?_ he thinks triumphantly. Now, finally, he's preparing that damned meal for Sandra – the first of many, or his name isn't Gerry Standing. (And it is. He had it legally changed when he turned eighteen.)

The roast is roasting, the greens are stewing, and Sandra has just poured each of them a glass of tempranillo when Gerry hears his mobile vibrating. Whoever the caller is, he or she can't be more important than what he's doing at the moment, he decides.

When it goes for the third time in fifteen minutes, Sandra retrieves the mobile from Gerry's jacket pocket and smacks it down beside him on the counter. "Someone wants to talk to you very badly, it appears."

Her voice has an edge to it, and he automatically looks down at the small phone's display. _Jayne calling_, it informs him. Great; perfect timing. Why would Jayne be –

"Shit," he swears feelingly, and Sandra raises an eyebrow. "It's Sunday," he explains. "Sunday lunch with the girls. It was supposed to be –" he glances at his watch – "fifteen minutes ago. _Shit_."

"Then I guess you'd better go," she says after only the slightest hesitation. "You're late."

"I haven't cooked anything," he points out.

"Of course you have." She jerks her chin toward the oven. "Pork loin with plum sauce, roasted potatoes, and sautéed greens. Stop on the way and buy a pudding, et voila."

The logistics of transporting boiling hot food aside, Gerry is less than pleased. "This is for you. For us."

Sandra blinks. "Food's food," she says flatly, "and I have spaghetti bolognese. Call Jayne and tell your family you've got your skates on."

"Come with me," he invites impulsively with a sudden glimmer of hope.

"What, and join the harem?" She laughs, but there is a hardness to the normally rich, throaty sound. "That would be very subtle, Gerry. No, thank you."

"Then I'll save you some," he replies, trying not to let her dismissal sting.

"You're confronting seven hungry women and two boys." She shakes her head, those luxurious curls dancing. "Forget it."

"You're never going to let me cook for you," he says woefully.

"Strictly speaking, that's not true. You've cooked. The eating bit has proven problematic."

2.

"He's on his way," Jayne says a few minutes later to the group assembled at the grimly named Slaughtered Lamb, the nearest pub to Gerry's flat.

Alison groans theatrically. "Oh, that could mean anything."

"I hope no one's starving," Carole agrees. "Did he say where he was?"

Jayne shakes her head and Amelia cheerfully chirps, "He's been with some creature."

"Be nice, Amy," Paula reproves, but she's grinning. "Little pitchers."

Gerry Junior is oblivious, however, being entertained admirably by his youngest auntie and new uncle.

"He might as well learn early as late about his grandfather," Carole returns easily. "Another round, ladies – and Jake?"

"Count me in," Jayne agrees immediately. Otherwise she's been very quiet. Emily looks surreptitiously at Caitlin's mother. No wonder she seems subdued. If Gerry hasn't been with her, where has he been, and with whom?

"Maybe it's work," Emily volunteers, trying to smooth the situation over, but Paula spoils the effect by giggling.

"Oh, I'm sure," Alison chortles, clinking her pint against Emily's red wine.

"Might be at that," Carole agrees with a grin of her own, lifting her vodka tonic, and now everyone joins in the laughter – everyone except Jayne and Emily.

By the time Gerry rings to say that he is home and lunch is on the table, Emily is exceedingly uncomfortable, and laboring under the suspicion that she's the worst detective at the Met.

3.

She really doesn't want to have this conversation over lukewarm jacket potatoes.

"If you put enough black pepper on it," Emily's luncheon companion remarks breezily, ripping the top off one of the little paper packets, "even this slop is palatable. How's the river disco stabbing inquiry coming along?"

"Oh, fine, I suppose. My sergeant spent most of yesterday being seasick in the Thames."

Sandra grins. "Ah, the fast-paced glitz and glamour of a career at the Met." The older woman glances down at her plate as she uses her knife blade to spread the beans more evenly. "Sorry I had to cancel Tuesday. Brian got into a bit of a scrape at the Cabinet War Rooms." At the DI's raised eyebrows she adds, "You really don't want to know. It could've been construed as relating to our current investigation, I suppose. I knew I should've sent your dad. He wouldn't have given a toss about potential historical inaccuracies in the exhibits." Sandra pauses and takes a swig of her soda. "But what did you want to discuss with me? If it's that pillock Chief Super Metger, just give him a slap. I did."

"No, no, it isn't that," Emily puts in hastily, risking a glance at her mentor as she forks idly at her own pale potato. "Strictly speaking it's not about work."

"Okay," Sandra says cautiously, putting her fork down.

"That is – it's not about my work," Emily clarifies. "It's about yours." Sandra regards her expressionlessly and Emily fights the urge to squirm. "I mean it's about Gerry."

Sandra takes another bite of her potato and chews slowly. "Okay," she repeats.

Correction: Emily doesn't want to be having this conversation at all, anywhere. And she probably shouldn't be. But she's been trying for four days to shake the feeling that this is something she has to do, so here they are.

Now that she has finally managed to corral Sandra, though, what the hell is she going to do with her, especially with the lunch hour crowd ebbing and flowing around the two of them in this dingy little corner of the police cafeteria?

Best to do it quickly, like ripping off a plaster.

"Look, I know it's not my place to say anything, but since I've already opened my big mouth once I thought I should tell you that I was wrong about Dad and Jayne."

Is it Emily's imagination, or does Sandra look relieved? "Oh," she says, resting her wrists on the table's edge, fork and knife poised above her plate. "Oh," she repeats more brightly, "is that all? Like I said, it's really none of my business."

"Isn't it?"

A single eyebrow shoots upward. "As long as it doesn't affect his work, the original Cockney Don Juan can have hot and cold running women in his flat for all I care."

"Maybe you should care," Emily hears herself say, as if her voice belongs to someone else, and she thinks, Shit, shit, shit, shut UP.

The other woman's penetrating gaze immediately goes cool. Cool? Arctic. "Excuse me?" she asks in the don't-push-me tone Emily has never heard directed at herself before, and the D.I. winces.

"Forget it," Emily mutters quickly. "I'm sorry, Superintendent. That was out of order."

Long fingers close around Emily's wrist in a punishing grip. "Don't 'Superintendent' me, Inspector. Now, what the hell are you on about?"

Damn, Sandra can be scary.

Emily swallows hard. "Is your hair naturally curly?"

Sandra stares at Emily as if she's suddenly sprouted a second head, and Emily wants to sink through the floor. "Emily, are you feeling all right?"

"This is yours, right?" Emily reaches into her no-nonsense handbag and produces a small hairbrush, its bristles wrapped in strands of blonde curls. "And these?"

Sandra wordlessly takes the earrings and stares at the now-cold, greasy potato. Shit. First Esther, then Frank Patterson, now Emily – she might as well have made an announcement in the Police Gazette. I, Sandra Pullman, am shagging the notorious Gerry Standing.

"I thought they were Jayne's," Emily continues, beet-red with embarrassment. "They were in Dad's bathroom, so I thought – Maybe I should quit the force and become a rent-a-cop, huh?"

"Emily –"

"At lunch Sunday," she continues hopelessly, "the ex-wives and the other girls were all saying –"

"Saying what?" Sandra demands after a moment of silence, her prominent jaw tight.

Emily focuses on something over Sandra's shoulder. "Ask Gerry," she mutters, sliding hastily to her feet. "I have to get back to work. Excuse me."

"Was that Em'ly?" Gerry asks cheerfully as he takes the seat his daughter has just vacated and places a plate of biscuits between his elbows.

"She was in a hurry," Sandra replies tonelessly, pushing her plate away. "Did you find Marjorie Gardner?"

This wasn't the woman he'd left half-asleep at 7:00 this morning, but Gerry is learning to roll with the punches. "I'm heading to talk to her now. Wanna come?"

"Take Jack, if he's back from Richmond," she says with no trace of warmth.

"Right, gov. What do you fancy for dinner, by the by?"

Thai, it's on the tip of her tongue to say, or Malaysian. That's what she was thinking before she met Emily for lunch. "Solitude," she responds succinctly, gathering her trash. "We've seen quite enough of each other in the last week, don't you think?"

Gerry raises his eyebrows, stung. "Yeah, all right. Don't let me inflict my presence on you, then."

"Keep your voice down," Sandra hisses. "I got a bump on the head and you've used it as an excuse to practically move in with me."

"What, and you suddenly lost the power of saying 'Sod off, Gerry'?" he returns caustically. "Likely story, Sandra."

"Sod off, Gerry."

He watches her return her tray, and then joins her in front of the lift. "What did Emily say to you?"

"Nothing," she replies, jabbing the down button. "Did you tell her? Because she knows. Your whole family knows, apparently."

"That's not nothing, and no. How many times do we need to have this conversation?"

"We don't need to have it at all." Not talking sounds like a damned excellent idea at the moment, especially since she's pretty sure she knows what "the ex-wives and the other girls" had been saying about her and Gerry over lunch on Sunday. She doesn't need to hear it from him, because she could see it all too clearly when the former detective sergeant looked at her the way he'd looked at her Saturday night. The way he's looking at her now, in fact. _Oh, Gerry, way to screw everything up, you plank_, she thinks angrily, shooting him a glare as the elevator doors swoosh open with a ding.

"You going to at least tell me what I've done now?" he asks bluntly, following her into the otherwise empty car. "It's not like you to pass up the opportunity to give me a bollocking. You seemed happy enough when I was playing tea boy this morning."

"Gerry!" she exclaims, eyes flaring.

He shrugs and folds his arms. "There's nobody to hear."

"Look –" Sandra put a hand on his navy and green tie, physically keeping Gerry at arm's length. If only it were that easy. "We had an agreement. We had rules."

"You had your bleedin' rules," he protests.

"And you knew exactly what you were getting," she retorts, the lines of her supple mouth hard. "This wasn't part of the deal, these last few days."

"And you've been suffering nobly in silence, have you?" His mouth hints at a smile, because he knows she hasn't; he knows her.

Her blue eyes roll toward the metallic ceiling. "Of course not."

"Then what does it matter? Jesus, Sandra, relax a little." He briskly removes her hand, linking their fingers, and steps into her. "I may not be Prince Valiant, but I'm not quite an ogre or a troll either. We could be happy. We could have a good time."

"I was _having_ a good time, Gerry, and then you had to go and ruin it." Angrily she slaps at the emergency stop button, determined to finish this bloody conversation and have done with the whole mess. "That was the point: to be two adults having a bit of fun. Why I thought you could behave like an adult, I suppose, will be one of the great mysteries of the ages."

"Y'know, guv'nor, if one of us is behaving like an adult in this situation, I'm pretty sure it's not you," he tosses back in a low growl that bodes ill.

"Ex_cuse_ me?" Sandra sounds as affronted as if she were Elizabeth I confronting the Spanish armada, and as annoyed as he is, part of Gerry still wants to laugh.

"I don't look like bleedin' Mystic Meg, do I?" he demands, gesturing expansively in the confined space. Gerry isn't a large man, but he can take up a great deal of room when he wants to, and Sandra stifles the desire to back away. She doesn't have anywhere to go, anyway.

"Not particularly."

"'ot, cold, 'ot, cold," Gerry continues, his aitches apparently hampering his ability to express himself as he desires. "You want to treat me like your lap dog, yeah? Tellin' me to come when you call and go when you say. Don't I at least deserve a pat on the head?"

Sandra has gone very pale. "I'm sorry," she says as evenly as she can, struggling against whatever emotions she refuses to let herself feel right now. "Evidently this whole thing was a really shit idea, and that's down to me."

"Uh-huh." Gerry sighs and rubs at his jaw, striving for calm. "What does that mean, then?"

She sighs heavily, looking down at her ridiculous heels. Her feet hurt, she realizes idly, and the toes are scuffed. "Nothing. We – we just forget it, I suppose. Isn't that what you usually do?"

Gerry flinches as if Sandra has backhanded him, and she is immediately ashamed of herself, but she won't back down. "So we just rewind, is that it?" he says. "You want to act as if the last six months never happened and go on workin' side by side, the gov and good old Gerry?"

"It isn't as if you've never done it before."

His jaw clenches, but he bites back what he wants to say and instead points out, "I didn't say I haven't. I'm askin' if that's what you want."

"That was the deal."

"And that's not what I asked." She can't get away from him in the lift, and she would've been too proud to attempt it anywhere, so she doesn't resist when his fingers insinuate themselves into her hair and tilt her face so that their eyes meet. "Say it."

She swallows. "That's what I want."

She's also too proud to show weakness by flinching, so she stands stock still as his lips brush lightly against hers and he coaxes, "Sandra." She squeezes her eyes shut. "Sandra, don't lie to me. I know what you want. I know _you_."

She accepts the second kiss he presses to her mouth for a fraction of a second before she jerks away. "No," she says firmly, jabbing the emergency button again. The car lurches into motion.

His hands grip her upper arms through the thin fabric of her short-sleeved black top, firm but careful, as he tries one last time. "Don't do this, Sandra. There's no reason for it."

Sandra swallows hard, her eyes sliding away from his before flickering back. "Christ, Gerry, how can someone your size support an ego that big?" she asks with much less malice than the words would suggest. "Do you think you're irresistible to women?"

"No, not at all, actually." He squeezes hard before releasing her and stepping back just in time for the elevator doors to slide open as if on cue. "What I think is that this is the first time I've ever seen you really scared."

His tone challenges her to argue, but Sandra only stares at Gerry as he steps out into the corridor. He stands there, looking back, until the doors close.

Once she's safely hidden from prying eyes, Sandra leans against the back wall, lets her eyelids fall shut, and releases a long, deep breath. That could've gone better, but at least it's over. She's known all along that this thing between the two of them would have to end eventually. All right, she hadn't known that end would come today, but her conversation with Emily has just opened Sandra's eyes to what she would've had to see soon enough anyway: Gerry thinks he's fallen in love with her. He hasn't been foolish enough to say the words, but she knows, and she has known, and she has refused to acknowledge it.

And Sandra definitely doesn't do falling-in-love. Grace was right about that. Oh, sure, she'd stumbled a few times when she was younger, but never anything as dramatic as falling, and not for a very long time.

Besides, Gerry's love is puppy love, the kind of infatuation he always seems to feel for his female companions. He'll lick his wounds, remember what life was like before five months ago, and things at UCOS will eventually go back to normal, or what passes for normal with them. She can wait him out. She's patient.

Well, she thinks maybe she could be patient, in a situation that warranted it, which is virtually the same thing.

Gerry had been right in part: Sandra is scared… a little. She's afraid Gerry will do something asinine before he's cooled down properly, make some dramatic gesture and screw things up permanently; and if that happens, she'll be more to blame than anyone else.

Because she's the guv'nor. She's in charge, and they're her responsibility, her old dogs. She'll make sure it all works out.

It has to.


	19. Recipe for Disaster

_In brief: the boys make a special dinner, Sandra attempts to clean up a few messes simultaneously, and Gerry finally gets mad._

**19. Recipe for Disaster**

_Ingredients:_

_One ex-Chief Super, worrying_

_One Cockney copper, brooding_

_One ex-D.I., obsessing_

_One Detective Superintendent, pretending_

_One wife, well-informed_

_Directions:_

_Add one birthday celebration, three hours of enforced proximity, and one large helping of issues (unresolved). Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and allow to simmer. Don protective gear, seek shelter, and await explosion._

1.

"Does this say one tablespoon or one teaspoon?"

"I don't know. I never could read her handwriting."

Jack and Brian bend their heads together over the recipe book, both peering at the page covered in Mary Halford's distinctive scrawl, both squinting as if it were cuneiform.

Gerry leans over from his post at Jack's kitchen counter, where he's inserting cloves of garlic into the pierced flesh of the roast with the dramatic flair of an Impressionist painter. "Teaspoon," he says briefly, already turning back to his task. "Tablespoon of cumin would overpower the other flavours and reduce the complexity of the risotto."

Jack smirks. "I do hate it when my risotto is simple. – Brian, hand us that wooden spoon."

The coming Saturday is Esther's birthday. When he'd realised, Jack had taken the unprecedented step of inviting everyone over for dinner Friday night in celebration. He strongly suspects that otherwise the only special birthday meal his friend's wife would enjoy would be the one prepared by her own two hands.

He is now learning, however, that six hands aren't necessarily better than two, especially when a third of them belong to Brian.

And then there's Gerry, Mr. Sunshine himself, live and in person. He's been alternately taciturn and scathingly sarcastic all week. If Jack didn't have the certainty of first-hand observation to prove otherwise, he would've sworn that the ex-detective sergeant was off the fags again. Such a persistently vile mood is _not_ Gerry Standing's usual style.

Brian's thoughts are obviously running along the same course, although, unlike Jack, he lacks any sort of filter between his brain and his tongue. "Things not going so well with Jayne, mate?"

Jack risks a look at his other friend's face and then cringes at the risotto. Gerry has gone very pale, with the exception of two bright washes of colour on his cheeks.

"What the bleedin' hell has Jayne got to do with anything?" Gerry demands, threateningly lifting the garlic press and brandishing it like a weapon. "No one seems to have noticed, but _we – are – divorced_."

Brian blinks a couple of times. "Sorry," he says mildly.

Jack, who should've learned his lesson, puts in, "One of your girls, then?"

"The girls are great." Gerry slings the garlic press into the sink with an impressive clatter. "Terrific."

Brian and Jack exchange a wary glance. "So it is a woman," reasons the intrepid, foolhardy ex-D.I.

"Am I under caution, or what?" Gerry snarls, and yanks the oven door open to receive the roast.

At least, Jack consoles himself, they've temporarily got rid of Sandra. If Gerry's ill humour is bad, her incontrovertible cheerfulness is worse. Not that Sandra is a pessimist by nature; if she were, God knows she would've topped herself long before now, working with the three of them. But the abrupt, wholesale change in her disposition is… jarring, to say the least.

"New fella?" Brian had suggested cautiously to Jack after they'd spent a solid forty-eight hours on the Good Ship Lollipop with cruise director Sandra "Stars and Rainbows" Pullman.

Jack doubted that, since not too long ago there had been the mysterious old fellow. In truth, he's worried. He has known Sandra for a very long time, and he's never seen her like this. Something about her cheerfulness rings hollow, like a bad penny. She doesn't seem happy so much as she does manic, whirling through the days like an unstoppable one-woman Met.

It hasn't escaped Jack and Brian's notice that the surlier Gerry becomes, the more Sandra piles on the good humour, as if the two of them can't stop egging one another on. Maybe forcing them to spend several extra hours in each other's presence tonight wasn't the most brilliant brainwave Jack has ever had.

But, he reasons, this is a nice, innocent birthday party. How bad can it be?

2.

"Are you sure you don't want something stronger?" asks Sandra, who does, rather desperately, as Esther pours them each another cup of orange peko.

"Oh, no." Esther smiles and nibbles the corner of an almond biscuit. "Just one won't spoil our dinner, will it? – I adore this place."

"I didn't realize you knew it." Esther had immediately suggested this teahouse, the one where Sandra had brought Gerry several months ago, when the younger woman had invited her out for a pre-birthday celebration.

"Sandra!" An Li had greeted her happily. "It's too long since you've been in. Busy with your friend?"

"Busy with work," she'd replied with a small smile. Telling herself not to think of Gerry is like telling herself not to think about an elephant.

Impossible man. Every time he looks at her she feels like she's Cruella DeVil and he's a defenceless Dalmatian.

Which is complete rubbish. Gerry has broken too many hearts in his day to play the victim.

Besides, she hasn't broken his heart. He's just milking it, playing the tragic lover to make her feel guilty. It's working, which makes her feel like crap, which in turn makes her damned angry. "Lovers" wasn't even the appropriate term to describe what they'd been to each other, she reminds herself firmly. They're friends and colleagues who shared similar interests in things like food. And sex. Gerry should know that better than anyone. Christ, how many dozens of women must he have shagged without ever giving a thought to ringing up the next day?

"Earth to Sandra," Esther teases gently. "Is everything all right?"

Sandra flashes a quick smile. "Oh, yes, fine."

It isn't, but, she resolves, staring down into her teacup, it's going to be. Gerry is a 61-year-old man behaving like a petulant 16-year-old, and Sandra has had more than enough. It's time to have it out with him, once and for all, and get back to business as usual.

3.

Mercifully, the meal's only major event was Esther's embarrassed delight when she realised it was a celebration in her honour, complete with a layer cake Brian had made with assistance from Gerry. As he reclines in his chair, Jack is feeling justifiably chuffed with himself over the success of his first solo endeavour as host of a dinner party. He smiles benignly as he deals cards for a friendly after-dinner game of poker.

"I'll do the washing up," Gerry volunteers, and Sandra says, "Deal me out too. I'll help." When she catches Gerry's eye to offer him a slight smile, he stops short of glaring back. She's mildly encouraged. He'd been perfectly civil at dinner – except when Brian and Jack ganged up to inform him that Chelsea had the wedge to buy a championship team and still couldn't manage to win a game. Maybe he was ready to put this idiotic episode behind them too.

There's no use putting it off. As soon as they're alone Sandra decrees, "We need to talk."

He meets her eyes unflinchingly as he fills one side of Jack's sink with dirty dishes. "Can't it wait?"

"No, I don't think so. Do you?"

He sighs and turns to face her, folding his arms in an unconsciously protective gesture. "Right, then." He sounds resigned. "What's there to talk about?"

She bites her tongue as annoyance flares. _Keep_ _calm and carry on_. "How long do you think you're going to be this miserable to be around, for instance?"

Her words should be a red flag, but she speaks them very softly, almost affectionately. Damn it, he's powerless to resist her when she acts like this. It's much easier when she confines herself to screaming at him.

"You haven't seemed all that bothered," he returns cautiously.

She shrugs, her scoop-necked grey top sliding off one shoulder. "Well, I am. Congratulations."

"You know, despite what you may think, I'm not performing for your benefit," he comments, glancing back to turn on the hot water.

Sandra moves a bit closer so they can hear one another over the fall of the water without being overheard by everyone else. "Come on, aren't you?" she challenges with the barest hint of a smile.

"Maybe a little. Somebody's gotta counteract all that good energy you're putting out," he admits, and her smile grows.

"I hate that things are like this," she says honestly. "And I don't think you're too thrilled either. So let's fix it."

Gerry doesn't quite smile in return, but he reaches out and rubs her arm – safe, neutral territory, just above her elbow. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"What I've said all along: we agree to forget about it," she says simply.

"Forget about it," he echoes, his other hand seeking out her right arm, still rubbing gently over the soft fabric of her top. He knows he shouldn't, but he misses touching her and she looks soft and the slightest bit disheveled by the work day. "We both spontaneously develop amnesia."

"I know it's not that easy," she retorts, mildly annoyed. "But if we try –"

His eyes narrow slightly. "What about Thursdays?"

She blinks.

"How far back does this amnesia extend?" he continues.

"That depends on exactly what Thursdays mean, I suppose," she replies after considering, and she can't keep the hopefulness from creeping into her voice.

"If I'm willing to play by the rules, yeah?" His fingertips skate lightly along her jaw as he leans in to kiss her temple, unable to resist. "No strings attached. No muss, no fuss, innit?"

She's not listening, turning her lips to his, and she tastes like the sweet strawberry-filled cake they've just eaten. As angry as he is, part of Gerry is beguiled by the way she leans into him, physically as open as she is closed off in every other way, even here in Jack's kitchen with Jack and Brian and Esther in the next room.

"You'd abide by the agreement?" she asks when he draws back, one arm still holding her in place.

"Is that what you want?"

She raises her eyebrows at his tone. "Of course it is. Gerry, God only knows how it happened, but I like being with you." Sandra glances down, almost shyly. "We have a good time, don't we? We laugh, we eat, we –"

"Have it away."

She shrugs again. "If you want to put it that way. I'll nominate you for poet laureate, shall I?"

"You've made it abundantly clear that that's all you want it to be."

She steps back, frustrated, dismayed. "Honestly, Gerry, can't you just leave off? You sound like a bloody jilted schoolgirl. What would all your old mates on the Sweeney say, Casanova?"

"Why do you refuse to believe that I love –"

"Don't, don't, don't!" she interrupts commandingly, holding out her palm as if it could physically stop the words. Gerry thinks she looks like a child in a tantrum, plugging her ears and shouting, "I can't hear you!" "That is complete bollocks," she insists. "How many times have you been 'in love'?" The words drip with sarcasm. "Can you even count that high?"

"Maybe not," he retorts, his features set. "But that's better than being like you, in my book."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demands, protectively folding her arms just as he'd done a few minutes earlier.

"Look at yourself, Sandra. Have you ever let yourself love anything besides the sorry, shitting job?"

She winces but doesn't bother interrupting.

"You know what? The job doesn't love you back. It's well past time you faced some home truths. In ten years' time you won't have the work to distract you from your miserable life. It'll just be you, all alone, with a whole lot of empty hours in front of you."

She blinks rapidly and heaves a short, deep breath. "Well," she says abruptly, telling herself that she doesn't feel as if she's just been flayed alive, that those aren't tears clouding her vision, and that Gerry hasn't just articulated her greatest fear, the one she never takes out of its dark corner, "thank you for that. But since you're just a washed-up old copper yourself, forgive me if I can't take you all that seriously."

"Yeah, I know you don't take me seriously," he returns flatly. "But you might have to start."

Sandra draws herself up very straight before Gerry can elaborate. "More importantly, I'm your governor. So I suggest you go home, figure out how to work with me like a grown-up, and don't come back to UCOS until you do."

"I've got a better idea: I won't come back at all."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, Jesus, Gerry, be reasonable. You're going to chuck your job, which you love, because you've got your pride wounded. You know you'll regret it."

"You be reasonable," he replies through clenched teeth. "I'll be well shut of it."

"Of _me_," Sandra specifies angrily. "You're acting like a child."

"And you're acting like a frigid bitch, so I guess we're both just doing what comes naturally," he answers, savagely insouciant. "But yeah, you know what? If the lads get a new guv'nor, have one of 'em give me a bell. You'll have my letter of resignation by Monday."

He slams out of the kitchen and she stands stock-still, numb, as she hears him saying, "Thanks for the invite, Jack. Happy birthday and many happy returns, Esther. I'm off home."

The entire house is silent in the wake of Gerry's abrupt departure. Sandra squeezes her eyes shut. _Shit, shit, shit_. This was exactly the sort of horribly messy scenario the rules were meant to prevent. But what sort of utter moron expected anyone who was Old Bill – let alone _Gerry Standing_ – to play by the rules?

And maybe more importantly, how much did Jack, Brian, and Esther hear of that charming scene?

She plants herself in front of the sink and furiously wrenches the hot water back on. There's washing-up that needs doing.

She's standing there, arms braced on the sides of the sink, furiously blinking back what would've been tears if they were in anyone else's eyes, sightlessly staring at the water racing down the drain, when Jack tiptoes cautiously into his own kitchen as if it might be riddled with landmines. He stood for a few seconds, just watching her, before striding over and shutting off the water.

"Oh, Sandra," he murmurs, patting her shoulder. "I suppose this proves a point, doesn't it?"

She has straightened instantly and is squirting a generous amount of Fairy onto the sponge. "What's that, Jack?"

He continues rubbing her back in an uncharacteristically fatherly fashion as he answers. "I should've just left the entertaining to Mary. It's not my bag."

_A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who has stayed with me throughout this long journey. Only two more chapters left to go!_


	20. Snacks and the Single Girl

_A/N: Well, only one more chapter after this one, so we've almost reached the end of the road. Thanks so much to everyone for receiving my little tale so warmly. I've had so much fun thinking up all sorts of different meals for Sandra and Gerry to enjoy, but more fun knowing that people are actually reading what I've written!_

**Chapter Twenty: Snacks and the Single Girl**

1.

"Blech!" Brian exclaims, opening the car door to spit the half-masticated fragments of wasabi pea onto the asphalt. "Bloody hell, how can you eat those? They're horrible!"

Sandra carefully plucks the bag from his fingers before he can spill any and fishes out a handful of the spicy, crunchy peas. "I like them," she says calmly, popping the entire handful into her mouth. "Plus there's a vegetable in there, so it gives you the illusion that they're healthy."

"The green pea is actually a legume, which –"

"_Brian_."

"Right. Malteser?"

"Don't mind if I do. Have you got any of those crisps left?"

"Which, prawn cocktail or cheese and onion?"

"Cheese and onion."

"Here. You didn't forget the Dairy Milk, did you?"

"You've got it there in my handbag."

Sandra longs to be home in a tracksuit watching Freeview and demolishing several pints of ice cream and a very large Chinese take-away, but in her bizarre world, this will have to suffice; "this" being dead boring surveillance, hours and hours of it, with Brian and about fifteen pounds of snacks for company. Sandra will be taking those fifteen pounds home on her hips, alas.

Supposedly some people lose their appetites when they're upset. At least, Sandra has heard tell of this phenomenon. She wouldn't know, since she's busy eating for England, her usual emotional response.

"What are you going to do if Gerry doesn't come back?"

Sandra washes the crisps down with a mouthful of Pepsi. "He'll be back."

Brian considers, looking out through the rain-speckled window. "It's been a week, and no word."

"He'll be back, Brian," she repeats firmly, because that's her job. She's the governor.

When Gerry didn't show up for work on Friday, Sandra had told Strickland he was off sick. When Monday rolled around and still no Gerry, she'd told the D.A.C. it was flu, and both times Jack and Brian had looked on wordlessly while she lied.

She hasn't told either of them that Gerry had been as good as his word: he'd emailed his resignation to her first thing Monday morning. Sandra hadn't accepted it, and she isn't planning to.

When Brian speaks again, his voice is hushed. "What's this all about, Sandra?"

Well, finally. She can't believe it has taken one of them this long to come out and ask. She can only assume it's because they weren't sure they wanted to know. She's had enough time to anticipate the question, so she should've had a ready answer, but Sandra still doesn't know what to say.

"Gerry's… upset," she offers lamely after a moment. "With me. Upset enough that he doesn't want to work with me any more."

Brian stares at her. "You must be joking. You _are_ talking about Gerry Standing? Everybody knows that under all his pissin' and moanin', he thinks you're the greatest thing since –" As he searches for a suitable comparison, his eye falls on a discarded wrapper on the floorboard. "Since Jaffa cakes."

"Not any more."

Sandra glances at her watch. Jack will be arriving soon to relieve Brian. The two-on, two-off system tends not to work so well when there are only three of you.

_What if he really doesn't come back?_ she asks herself.

_He's not, is he?_

The thought makes her stomach ache, a visceral, twisting pain that she can't blame on all the crap she's been ingesting. If he really leaves for good, it will be her fault at least as much as his.

They'll interview for a replacement, someone who doesn't smoke in the office and wear obnoxious ties and often break into the most annoying songs possible.

Someone who won't flash her that mischievous grin or look at her like she's the sexiest thing he's ever seen, even when she's frayed and half-shattered and has just finished giving him a bollocking and probably smells of stale coffee and sweat.

What are _you_ going to do, Brian had asked, because she's the boss. It's her job to fix it. _So fix it, Pullman_, she tells herself.

But how can she?

She hates the thought of replacing Gerry at UCOS, but maybe there are other places in her life where she can't replace him at all.

_This was never, ever supposed to happen_, she thinks, and the wrenching in her gut increases. Gerry is laughably wrong for her. No sane woman would willingly get involved with a 61-year-old smoker, drinker, and gambler with three ex-wives, four daughters, a dodgy sense of humour and a Lothario complex.

She didn't _choose_ Gerry. And yet… there he is. And the thought of him not being there any more makes her physically ill, so ill that for a moment she's afraid she'll vomit all over the front seat of her car, Brian and Maltesers and all.

Gerry has somehow crept inside, scaling her walls or tunneling underneath, and she hadn't realised it until she'd opened her eyes in the hospital and only wanted to see one face. That had been terrifying.

Not as bad as the current reality, though. Not as bad as this horrible physical pain and the understanding that it can only mean one thing.

It means that he can hurt her, really hurt her. It means she's vulnerable, and she hates being vulnerable.

It means that somehow, somewhere, she'd begun to love the man. What the hell does it say about her that she only recognises love when it causes such pain?

Sandra doesn't particularly want to love Gerry, or be loved by him, but here she is. The heart, apparently, will want what the heart will want, even if the head disagrees.

Shit. Just shit. This is such a bad idea. Look at his track record. Look at hers! Gerry had at least tried to make commitments; Sandra habitually fled in the opposite direction.

If he ever even thought of screwing around on her, she'd murder him. She would have to make that very clear.

_You were wrong, Mum_, she thinks, a little delirious from her carb high_. I do need someone. Oh, sure, I could survive without him; but maybe I need him to make my life better. And maybe worse, too. Probably worse._

"Who knows?"

Sandra realises she has spoken aloud when Brian frowns at her and asks, "All right there?"

_Peachy. I'm just having a conversation with my dead mother_. "Yeah, fine. Sorry."

She doesn't know how the two of them could manage to make it work. The whole thing will probably self-destruct horribly inside six months, obliterating large swathes of greater London and ravaging the surrounding countryside. But she'll hate herself if she doesn't at least try.

Jack has pulled up a couple of car lengths back. Sandra suddenly snaps to attention. "Brian, you've not got anything really special on this evening, have you?"

"When have I ever?" he replies philosophically.

"Come on, then." Before Jack has time to get out of his car, Sandra is shepherding Brian in his direction. Jack rolls down his window as he watches them approach.

"Yes, madam?"

"Change of plans. You're relieving me, not Brian."

Brian grins knowingly as he opens the passenger side door. "You're going to talk some sense into Gerry, aren't you?"

"You might as well not bother, "Jack puts in darkly, "unless you think you'll have much better luck than I did. I've just come from there, and it was bloody useless."

Sandra squares her shoulders resolutely. "I'm going to try another tactic."

As she pulls away from the kerb thirty seconds later, she accelerates so violently that the tyres squeal, and Jack winces. "Poor Gerry."

"Poor me," protests Brian, suddenly crestfallen. "She's taken me Maltesers!"

2.

Sandra had stopped at her flat to pick up exactly one item. She didn't bother freshening her make-up or even brushing her hair; Gerry knows what she looks like, and besides, smooth hair or a bright coat of lipstick aren't going to be the make-or-break factors tonight.

Twenty minutes later she's ringing his doorbell and telling herself, _Deep breaths. Just pretend you're facing down an armed criminal, and everything will be fine._

Then he opens the door and she thinks, _Christ, no, this is much scarier_.

He all but groans when he sees her, and Sandra blurts out, "A few months ago you told me you needed UCOS."

Gerry steps back in preparation for closing the door. "Look, Jack's already been here with the whole you're-breaking-up-the-team line, so you can save it. I'm tellin' you what I told him: it's my choice, and I've made it." He scowls at her. "Some decisions you're not in charge of even when you're the guv'nor, Sandra."

She steps up onto the stoop so he has to let her in or bodily shove her out, and holds up her hand. "Yeah, I know. I can't do anything to stop you, and neither can Jack or Brian. If you really want to leave UCOS, leave UCOS."

Gerry looks astonished. This obviously isn't what he'd expected from her.

_You ain't heard nothin' yet, pal_, she thinks, and gulps down a hysterical laugh. She swallows hard, collecting herself. _Just do it, Pullman. Don't be a sniveling coward_.

"Leave UCOS," Sandra repeats, meeting his gaze steadily, blue on blue, even as her voice trembles. "But don't leave me."


	21. The Rarest Vintage

_A new month brings with it a new chapter – after much ado, the last chapter! My fingers are crossed and I hope you think the long slog has been worth it. For the final time, on with the show._

**Chapter 21: The Rarest Vintage**

"Here's the thing, Gerry. I'm going to say three little words to you, and you may never hear them pass these lips again, so listen up: _I was wrong_."

They are, quite likely, not the three words he hoped to hear. As for Sandra, she barely _can_ hear them over the rushing of blood in her ears. Her adrenaline is flowing, her body automatically in fight-or-flight mode, and she forces herself to stay and fight – without yelling.

_Come on, Sandra. You do like a challenge._

"Can I come in?" she asks Gerry, who's busy looking gobsmacked.

"Yeah, all right." He steps aside to allow her to precede him, but doesn't offer to take her brown leather jacket, so she keeps it on. She goes straight into the lounge and sits down on the sofa, placing her oversized handbag at her feet and hoping she's projecting an air of unruffled confidence.

Fat sodding chance.

"What were you wrong about, then? Not that I can't think of a coupla things." He stands before her with his hands on his hips, a few inches away from overt hostility.

God, she absolutely loathes humble pie. It sticks in her throat and makes it difficult to speak. Fortunately she's brought along something to help wash it down.

"Us. You and me," she elaborates unhelpfully.

"Oh, there's an us now, is there?"

"Don't be daft, of course there is," she says more edgily than she'd intended, and then sighs. "Look, I'm really, really crap at all of this. I don't suppose you'd help me out just a bit by switching off the telly and sitting down?"

He glances at the football match being broadcast. "Arsenal are winning anyway," he reasons, pointing the remote at the screen. She follows his gaze over to one of the armchairs, but after hesitating Gerry places himself at the other end of the sofa and crosses one ankle over the opposite knee. "If you were wrong, it must follow that I was right."

Her brilliant blue eyes narrow instinctively. _Don't push it, Standing_, she thinks. Aloud she says, "Not necessarily. But, ah… you were right that I was –" She has to pause to swallow before being able to complete the sentence. "Scared. I'm actually fairly terrified, and I've never done anything like this before, so if you're just listening out of politeness or some sick sense of curiosity, tell me now, or I will kill you."

Gerry almost chuckles. "This is terrifying? Sandra, a few months ago you showed up half naked at me front door."

She shakes her head and glares at him. "That was a piece of piss. I knew how you'd react."

"Drink might help," he offers, standing and already heading for his nearby liquor supply.

"No, I've brought something." Sandra reaches quickly for her bag, her fingers shaking only a little as she draws back the zipper tab and extracts a bottle of red wine.

"Chateau La Reine, 1975," he reads automatically, and purses his lips in a low whistle.

"'75 was a very good year – for wine growers in France, not for the Pullman family. This is the bulk of my inheritance from my mum." She hands him the bottle to examine, but he's more interested in looking at her. "Go on and open it; it needs to breathe."

"You sure?" he questions, looking from the blonde to the bottle and back.

Her shoulder-length hair bounces as she nods firmly. "I was saving it for a special occasion. No matter how this goes, I'd say it's a special occasion, so what the hell?"

"I'll be right back, then."

He returns a moment later with two wide-mouthed glasses – trust Gerry to have the appropriate barware – and, of course, a cork screw. "You do the honours. It only seems fair."

"You're just afraid of making a hash of it and catching hell," she retorts, and for a moment, at least, she's able to pretend things between them are normal.

"I propose a toast," Sandra announces once she's filled the glasses, "to my mother, who bought this bottle with the lump pay-out she received from the Police Widows and Orphans Fund. Wherever she is, may there be free-flowing wine." She's surprised when she hears the catch in her voice.

Gerry's eyes are gentle as he softly echoes, "To your mum."

They lean forward to clink their glasses and then both take cautious sips, knowing the wine needs to be exposed to the air for a while before it will reveal its true flavours.

There doesn't seem to be any way to lead up to what she's come here to say, and Gerry is eyeing her with a combination of expectancy and apprehension, so Sandra takes a deep breath and blurts, "Look, I think there's a very high probability this will all crash and burn horribly, and I won't pretend I don't, but – I need to give us a chance."

Admittedly it isn't the most sanguine proposal Gerry has ever heard, but, coming from Sandra, that makes it more meaningful. Sandra thinks their relationship is doomed to failure, and she still wants to be with him – with _him_, Gerry Standing. It's an odd sort of back-handed, Pullman-esque compliment.

"You mean, chuck the rule book an' all?" he asks cautiously.

"Obviously there would have to be certain boundaries, or you'd drive – we'd drive each other mad," she cautions in an uncharacteristically thready voice. "But – but yes, chuck the rule book an' all."

Gerry regards her with an unreadable expression, his forehead slightly puckered in a frown, for what feels like an age but in reality is about twenty seconds. Sandra's heart throbs frantically with an uncomfortable mixture of impatience, resentment, and panic.

"Then you'd better at least take off your coat."

Her response is a single harsh, surprised, relieved chuckle. She shrugs out of the jacket and tosses it over the arm of the sofa.

"What are these boundaries?" he asks, watching her wriggle. "I walk twenty feet behind in public, sneak into your flat under the cover of darkness, and the like?"

Sandra's answering smile is tight. "I was thinking more along the lines of not interfering with work and respecting each other's space and privacy. But I wasn't planning to advertise – this, no."

He smirks.

Suddenly her eyes widen with intensity. "And I know you fancy yourself in a league with Don Juan, Gerald, but if you even _think_ about –"

His smirk transforms into a self-deprecating grin and he interrupts. "You'll just have to give me a really extended period of time to prove my sincerity and devotion, won't you?"

She doesn't look entirely convinced, and he doesn't expect her to be, but she does smile very slightly as she uncurls the fingers of her left hand from the two-fisted death grip she has on her wine glass.

"You're going to shatter that," Gerry admonishes, linking her fingers with his and applying the slightest pressure.

"This – this _whatever_ that I feel," she says abruptly, almost angrily. "I didn't ask for it." Her fingers squeeze his painfully hard. "I didn't want it. But –" Her eyes fasten on his, intense, apprehensive, and communicate some of what she can't say.

"You're a bit of a handful yourself, you know."

There's such affection in his expression and his voice that those pesky not-tears fill her eyes again. "Gerry," she says simply, pulling her hand away to press it against his cheek. She leans in then and kisses him like she means it; and after just a few seconds he tugs her glass from her unresisting hand, carefully sets it down, urges her closer, and kisses her like he means it, too.

As Sandra's weight settles against him and her hands on his shoulders press him back against the sofa's arm, Gerry turns to whisper, "Naughty girl – been nickin' Brian's sweets again."

"Focus, Gerry," she mutters. "The wine needs to breathe – for quite a while. How can we pass the time?"

The answer she receives is definitely not the one she expects. "You can help me make dinner."

She leans back enough to get a good look at his face, her eyes narrowing. "Questionable time to make a joke, Gerald."

"That's fine." He eases her back until he has room to stand; once on his feet, he holds out his hand. "I'm not joking. Come on."

Sandra takes the proffered hand, but only because her brain hasn't yet had time to process what has just happened. "Bring the wine," he adds, snagging both glasses in his free hand.

She trails him numbly, instructing her nerveless fingers not to spill her inheritance on Gerry's floor. "Excuse me," she says when they reach the kitchen, and slaps the bottle down on the counter. "Exactly what just happened?"

"We decided to let the wine breathe."

She sounds equal parts annoyed and amazed when she speaks again. "You rejected a sexual advance," she marvels.

He chuckles, but before she has time to contemplate his demise, he murmurs, "I _deferred_ it. Because what I have in mind is going to take quite a while, and I know how you get when you're not fed regularly." Her long fingers are still wrapped around the wine bottle as Gerry wraps himself around her, hugging her from behind and leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Like your mum's wine, all the best things take time to be fully enjoyed – and we have plenty of time, right?"

She twists around to look at him and sees the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes against the background of – she'll call it affection; that other word is still a little too scary. She's apprehensive, but she isn't going to change her mind on him. "We've got time," she reassures, reaching up to squeeze the hand that cups her upper arm. "So what's for tea, chef?"

"That's up to you, sous chef. Chicken or salmon?"

She scrunches her nose as he browses through the contents of the refrigerator. "That depends. Which is easier? What do I have to do?"

"How are you at deboning fish?"

"Please, Gerry. I already came over here and vomited in your lap, emotionally speaking. Haven't I been punished enough?"

Her turn of phrase makes him grin. "Don't worry, the salmon's filleted. As for what you have to do, you're doin' it. Think you can handle sitting there, keepin' me and the wine company and lookin' gorgeous?"

She flashes that amazingly radiant smile, the one that has been doing him in since he first saw it nearly a decade ago, and this time Gerry knows she's smiling like that because of him. "I'm reasonably confident. – I _can_ help with the meal, you know."

"Nope," he decrees firmly as he removes spices from a cupboard. The glimmer in his eye is almost enough to make Sandra forget her natural pessimism, at least momentarily. "Just let me look at you here in me kitchen. It does wonders for an old copper's morale."

"You know, being here does wonders for mine, old copper."

It's not exactly a declaration of undying love, but he'll take it. "If you keep looking at me like that, the dinner's not going to get cooked." As she obligingly averts her gaze, Gerry grins and continues, "You didn't ask if I'm coming back to work."

"I didn't figure I had to. You love your job."

"I love you."

Gerry could smack himself as soon as the words tumble off his tongue and Sandra's posture stiffens. Shit. He's so tired of this dance of two steps forward, one step back, that he feels like tearing his hair out. He actually hesitates, gripping the vegetable peeler he has just removed from a drawer, waiting for her to bolt.

When she turns to face him, though, her eyes are soft. "I'm… not used to hearing that."

He slowly breathes out in relief. "Well, we'll just have to get you used to it."

Sandra slides from the stool and wraps both her arms around Gerry from behind, just as he'd done a few minutes earlier, and drops her head to rest her temple against his shoulder. "I've missed you."

"You mean you've missed my cooking."

"Yeah, I do, but I suppose it's a package deal."

He spins suddenly, throwing Sandra off balance, and kisses her hard. "Well, I missed you, and definitely not your cooking. See, Sandra, there's no reason why this can't work: I cook, you eat."

"And when you're tired of cooking?"

"We'll go out." He tosses the peeler onto the counter and brushes her hair back so his lips can explore the line of her jaw. "It's worked out just fine so far."

"What about Jack and Brian?"

"They can come too. Once in a while."

She laughs richly, content to stand here in Gerry's kitchen and hug him. Life can be so strange, but strange isn't necessarily bad. Her heart throbs, painfully full. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to say it."

He is quiet for a few seconds, considering. "'s all right. You can show me." They sway slightly, almost as if they're dancing. "Think you can handle that?"

"Yes," she says, her jaw jutting with more determination than the situation seems to warrant, and her tone is suddenly filled with both trepidation and resolve. It's as if she's a first-time hurdler contemplating the thousand-metre. "I think I can."

Gerry looks askance as he gently releases her and begins to chop a handful of walnuts. He's half amused, half perplexed. "Don't over-exert yourself. You've been doing fine so far," he jokes, but there is a serious undercurrent to his teasing tone.

She looks over to meet his gaze directly as she resumes her position on the stool. "I have, haven't I?" She sounds surprised. "Of course, that was before I realised what I was doing."

He chuckles, still eyeing her. "And here I got the impression that you definitely knew what you were doing." Before she can respond he continues, "Sandra, I know you're a perfectionist, but there won't be an exam at the end. You're already head girl."

At last she cracks a smile and rolls her eyes at both of them. "Obviously. It's just –" She breaks off, sighing heavily, and lets her eyes roam around Gerry's cozy, well-used, neat-as-a-pin kitchen.

"Just what?" he asks a couple of minutes later as he hands her a slice of French bread slathered with brie and topped with honey and walnuts. "Here."

Sandra looks not at him but at the treat, studying it as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. He feels the tension rolling off her and wonders if he'll ever be able to keep pace with her abrupt mood shifts. Probably not, he reflects.

Her eyes find his again. "The last time I saw my mother, she told me I –" She breaks off again, this time scrutinizing his bright eyes and patient expression with an intensity she usually reserves for particularly problematic evidence. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because he can actually see her relax, her neck arching as her muscles loosen.

Sandra shakes her head, another smile breaking over her face, this one both happy and relieved. "Nothing," she decides, taking another small sip of the wine. "It doesn't matter. She didn't understand." She leans back, watching him work. "You know, I do dishes, too."

"I think that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. I _knew_ you were madly in love with me."

She chuckles and doesn't contradict him. After a moment she murmurs, "Hey, Gerry?"

He turns, raising an inquisitive brow.

"I think the wine has breathed enough."

Gerry snorts in mock disgust as Sandra picks up both glasses. "Women."

"Men," she retorts, and then offers him another of those heart-stopping, jaw-dropping smiles. "Have dinner with me."

He frowns. "I was under the impression that was what we're doin' here."

"Not tonight," she returns impatiently.

"Name the date, gov."

Sandra's expression has gone very serious. "Thursday," she says solemnly. She takes in the stricken gaze Gerry can't disguise, enjoying the moment before she spoils it by bursting into laughter. "Or Friday or Saturday or –"

"Sandra Pullman, you vicious bitch," he says admiringly, pulling both her and the wine into his arms because he feels much more secure when she's there, and takes his glass from her in the second before she kisses him breathless.

"A toast," she says when she pulls away slightly. Her face is flushed, her perfectly smooth hair ruffled, and Gerry Standing is happier than he remembers ever having been. She looks pretty damned happy too – and she hasn't even had dinner yet.

"What are we drinking to?"

Her light eyes hold a world of promise as they meet his darker ones. "To Thursdays."

"To Thursdays," he echoes heartily, and they drink. The wine is superb, but it's hard for Gerry to give it the attention it deserves when he has the stubborn, impossible woman he loves in his arms and years filled with Thursdays to look forward to.

The End

_A/N: Well, kids, that's all she wrote – finally. I've been thrilled and blown away by your response to Same Time, Next Week and Recipe for Disaster. To everyone who has read part or all of the stories, thank you so much; to my loyal, fantastic readers and reviewers, you know who you are, and so do I, and I am so tremendously grateful for all your kind words. Reading your reviews and messages has been a joy, and I'm afraid I'm addicted. I hope you're pleased with how things turned out. What can I say? At the risk of ruining any street cred I might still have and veering into the realm of wildly-out-of-character, I'm a sucker for a happy ending. I do think it's remotely possible that Sandra and Gerry _might_ not kill one another._

_And finally, a special thank-you to my first, most loyal, and most enthusiastic reader, forever. I will always be the Miss Valdosta Feed and Grain to your Miss Georgia World. _


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